


if i could (i'd be your candleflame)

by meowcosm, renrenners



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Adulthood: The Fic, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Nobility, Older Characters, Post-Canon, Requited Unrequited Love, Slow Dancing, about being deep in your feelings, and trying to figure out what to do after you've survived, background Dorogrid, background Sylvix and Mercenette, background dimidue, catching the bouquet, letter-writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 31,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26241580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meowcosm/pseuds/meowcosm, https://archiveofourown.org/users/renrenners/pseuds/renrenners
Summary: Nearly ten years after the end of the war, Ingrid and Dorothea announce their wedding.That's a problem for Ashe- though he wishes it wasn't. The upcoming nuptials make him the sole member of the original Blue Lions house to remain unmarried, a fact that he attributes to the years he's spend labouring over Gaspard territory with Cyril by his side, trying to prove himself as one of the first commoner lords in Fodlan. Cyril, on the other hand, finds himself in the perilous quagmire of dull and stable adulthood, all the while desperately putting off the responsibility he assumes himself to find Ashe his own suitable bride.When Ashe is handed the silver-lined invitation to the Enbarr Opera House by his long-time advisor himself, the two of them end up spiralling together, suffering through a mire of social niceties and preconceptions about how they- two long-suffering edge cases working for a better future- should feel about each other, and the future which lies in wait for them.
Relationships: Cyril/Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25
Collections: 2020 Ultra Rarepair Big Bang





	1. grey clouds

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for clicking on this fic! i hope you'll enjoy it. 
> 
> this has been a huge passion project for me. ashe/cyril as a pairing is very dear to me, and i've always been a little sad about the fact that they're the least popular m/m pair with a canon ending together on ao3. i hope this fic can remedy that for other existing fans, and maybe introduce some of you to the pairing in general!

Ashe has always wanted to see Gaspard prosper. 

It has, he’ll admit, always been one of the wealthier parts of Faerghus, even after being sunk into equal turmoil by the ravages of the last great war. But he knows, too, that those who see such wealth have never been amongst the common populace. Such riches have always been preserved for the upper class, a picture which repaints itself across the entirety of Fodlan. His old, deep-seated hunger is proof enough of that; of how the poor starve, while the rich eat well. A state of affairs which Ashe finds himself hardly compelled to call _prosperity_. 

_When the lands are fertile, and the weather good_ , he tells himself, _the bounty of the land should feed all, not the few_. 

It’s what he’d told the waiting audience at the castle on the day Dimitri gave him control of the territory, after all. In those days, full of both tension and relief, such a sentiment was often the only thing which brought him through the long days and sleepless nights. He would repeat it in the morning, sleep-heavy but unable to rest, and at night, already burning the energy of a meagre dinner on sorting through urgent communications from the paragons of authority which surrounded Gaspard. He repeated it each time one of those letters contained some unsubtle slight towards his inexperience or his background, then repeated it once more after he’d finished scribbling out a response full of bitter acquiescence. Never saying what he truly thought, acting like a nose-blind bloodhound incapable of following anything but what it saw move in front of him. 

Dimitri trusted him. He needed someone he could trust; someone who would establish a hold on the Faerghian bread-basket, supporting his reforms throughout. Regardless of the trouble he encountered, Ashe had committed to the role. Not only for his king, but for himself, and for Gaspard. 

Still, the words burned at the back of the throat each time a fellow lord spoke to him as nought but a boy, or a rowdy house-servant found sneaking candied berries from the pantry. 

_I know what you think of me_.

Everything considered, Ashe knows it’s Cyril’s presence that made those troubled years bearable. It still is; even in better times. The stubbornness and desire to prove himself which had once defined him became much more useful, Ashe had found, when he was foisted in front of those who would take subordination as a given, long before they earned anything of the sort. He had become indispensable to the running of both the castle and the territory before Ashe had even been able to process such things; when the last remaining holdover from Lowe’s grip on the house had passed on from age, Ashe could not summon a single reason why Cyril should not take his place as chief advisor, aside from the fact that such a role might not fully befit the previous leader of the Blue Lions house.

Cyril, upon being notified of such concerns, had only smiled at Ashe, and reminded him of their promise. 

“ _When you're in trouble next time and you need my help, I'll go with ya._ ”

Nothing either of them did had made the years of scarcity and struggle easier. Reluctantly, Ashe had been forced to abandon some of his optimism on the matter; particularly when he was faced with the prospect of crop failure and food scarcity in the second year of his rule. He was no stranger to the concept of hunger, but the experience of being unable to prevent the hunger of many was a much more ruinous one; even when extra supplies were secured from the Alliance. The simplicity of filling a single stomach translated poorly into feeding the swathes of hunger-wracked commonfolk, and Ashe had derived the furthest thing from joy watching those who simply could not continue onwards vanishing from the territory, headed where the claws of the Empire had not torn the flesh of the land. 

Nevertheless, he had persisted; eventually, with Cyril by his side. Hard months became easier years, salted earth returned to its previous fertility, those once too young to fight in the war aged enough to fill the waning defense barracks and till the fields. Moving at glacial pace, Ashe rarely noticed such progression, except in the short moments when he paused to contemplate the condition of the years which had passed. Such moments were rare- rare enough that when he began to feel pride in the things he and Cyril had done, he did not stop to consider the way such thoughts had changed over the years. 

Said years had brought with them their own fair share of change. In those first few years, Ashe had found little time to contemplate the matter of his own body, or anyone else’s, absorbed as he was in the work so constantly cut out for him. But at their end, when Ashe had settled once more into his bedroom, and ran his hands across the bareness of the body, he had noticed, in detail, the way the years had shaped it. Devoid of intense exercise, the definition of his shoulders had faded, as had the faint muscle-lines once carved into his chest. Replacing them was a thin carpet of fine, stormcloud-grey hair, matching the facial hair which Ashe had grown to shave away on instinct. Though he was himself, he was different, and in the gaze which looked back at him from that mirror, Ashe could not truly tell whether the boy who thought of little more than a full stomach and heroic stories remained within. 

He’d been comforted, then, when he’d brought his concerns to Cyril, and found out that he’d been experiencing much the same thing. Cyril had decided against shaving, and had instead developed a soft beard of slightly-wavy black hair. More to the point, his stomach had grown soft in much the same fashion, and the ease with which his youthful body maneuvered and fought had begun to slip from his grasp. Both of them had laughed, then, in what Ashe suspected was his first experience with such a feeling in months. 

  
_They were getting old_ , they’d agreed. Too old, for their actual ages, in no small part thanks to the stress of their positions. But they could not quit, nor could they turn back time. 

Ashe had doubted that he would, even if he could. 

They’d dropped the subject of age soon after their first conversation on the matter; little could be done by dwelling on it, after all. Such sentiments had only re-emerged during the Wyvern Moon of Ashe’s 31st, and Cyril’s 29th, birthday celebrations. The year previous had been one of otherwise unprecedented stability, with a finally-formalized trade deal between Fodlan and Brigid negotiated in full by King Dimitri meaning that Gaspard became the premier Faerghian port for trade between the two nations. There were no riots, no deaths amongst the court, nor were there any famines or sicknesses. Indeed, if Ashe were offered the choice to pick one year to be repeated on loop throughout the term of his leadership, he was sure that he would choose that one, calm and stable as it was. Even the always-difficult winter was alleviated by imports of the rich crops which could still thrive in Brigidian soil during cold months, and both Ashe and Cyril had been fortunate enough to greet Petra- recently ascended to the position of Queen- upon her disembarkment at the shore. 

It was then that their idle mouths had become occupied with talk of unimportant things; at least relative to the world which turned around them. Cyril had mostly chosen to while away their hours of idle time with talk of the wyvern stables which had been established in the southern part of the castle, close to where the sun would hit in the afternoon. Ashe, on the other hand, had taken up knitting- which he could not profess himself to be good at, but at which he was at least serviceable. Such improvement had not saved him, however, from Cyril’s good-natured jabbing at the nature of his new hobby. 

“You’re getting old, Ashe. Knitting for fun.” 

It had been a joke, but- loath as he was to admit it, then and now- it had certainly felt like a serious statement. Perhaps because he could not deny its truth.

“I saw you nail Cornelia on that balcony from miles away, years ago. Do ya remember that?”

He did. It was amongst his fondest memories of the war, truth be told, even though he’d long vowed to never find satisfaction in the act of killing.

“Yes.” he’d replied, with a tone of strong sincerity. “I don’t know what that has to do with knitting.”

Cyril had shrugged, and given him a rather abstract gaze. 

“Strange, huh? How you’ve changed.” 

He’d paused, then, though he’d clearly had something else on his mind.

  
“How we’ve all changed.”

Neither of them were sole amongst the Blue Lions in carving a path for themselves post-war. Perhaps the most unusual thing about the two of them was the fact that neither had married- nor had they entered into relationships, for that matter. For- aside from Ingrid- each of Ashe’s original classmates had established marital bonds, none of which had broken. And though such a comprehensive spread was assisted greatly by the fact that all had married within the Blue Lions, this did very little to mark the three of them less as outsiders. Though Flayn remained unjoined with another, Ashe had borne no shortage of suspicion that this was in part to do with Seteth’s perpetual meddling. Moreover, though Ingrid remained unmarried, Ashe was very much aware of her relationship with Dorothea- the relationship which had made her dissolve Galatea territory into one of the adjacent regions and head to Enbarr, pursuing a life much different from that of a noblewoman. 

If anything, Ashe had felt that it was perhaps he and Cyril who had changed the least.

“I suppose we have.”

Ashe said the words nonchalantly, but in the quizzical gaze Cyril had flashed him after hearing them, he could not deny a sense of concern bubbling somewhere inside.


	2. epistolary

Only the most important of letters are hand-delivered to Ashe.

_Well_ \- a more accurate description would be that all of the letters in the castle are hand-delivered, regardless of their recipient. But amongst all of the correspondence which filters through to the Lord of Gaspard, it’s the finest and most urgent that Cyril is called to collect upon arrival. 

It’s not something Ashe has ever _asked_ Cyril to take on. Those paid to cart the written word across the winding wooden corridors and stone river-bridges are perfectly capable of the task, and with the speed of letter-delivery considered, it’s hard for Ashe to think it as important as Cyril does that all important mail reaches him as fast as possible. At the same time, he’s never quite had the heart to refuse it- for reasons Ashe can only guess at, it seems to be something Cyril likes, and, he tells himself, _who is he to kill Cyril’s fun?_ After all, though it’s hard for Ashe to feel like playing paperboy is as exciting as Cyril seems to find it, it at least allows them their time together. 

Most of the letters Cyril intercepts are from the King, or from Dedue (which, considering their nuptials, are sometimes the same thing). He can recognize them on sight- Ashe has seen him do it, from distances that are somewhere between frightening and impressive. Printed on Blaiddyd-crest stationary and sealed with blue wax, differing in colour depending on the sender, they always look _important_ , but it’s Cyril who really pays attention to the intricate differences between each noble standard. Who redirects any letters he deems particularly pertinent, leaving Ashe to peruse the others once he’s finished with the most urgent communiques. 

It surprises Ashe, then, to find a fairly normal-looking letter on his desk, sorted into the urgent pile with the rest of the documents Cyril will no doubt insist on reading to him. At first, settling into his desk, he assumes there’s some mistake, and slips the unembellished letter slightly ajar in the pile. Even to him, it looks much too strange to be surrounded as it is by letters from those of undeniably great repute. He doesn’t doubt that Cyril will notice it, and he slinks back into his chair, absorbing a minute’s more comfort from its cushioned sheet before Cyril returns from the tail-end of the morning briefing, eyelids flickering gently in the budding-Summer sunrise. 

It’s when Cyril returns, looks over the pile and returns the rather-ordinary looking letter to its previous place amongst the neat stack, that Ashe realizes no mistake has been made. 

“Mornin’, Ashe.”

Despite the fact that he’s heard it perhaps a thousand times, Ashe has never quite tired of the sound of Cyril’s voice first-thing. Somewhat invigorated by the sound, he leans forward, puffing out his chest as he does.

“Ready for your briefing?”

Ashe yawns away the last dregs of his sleepiness, and nods, though he can’t say he’s in peak condition. If Cyril notices his frayed edges, he’s courteous enough to say nothing on the matter, instead proceeding to the first letter on the (thankfully short) pile he’s already assembled. 

“From House Gloucester.” Ashe has never ceased his surprise at the speed with which Cyril can identify the many different crests and noble houses; nor does he see much reason to cease it in that moment. “D’you want me to open it?” 

Ashe nods, though unenthused. “If it has anything to do with Claude, we should probably read it in full.” he mumbles. “But if it’s just Lorenz-” 

“Ignore it,” Cyril states, blunt, “and we can make it someone else’s problem.” 

Cyril’s characteristic bluntness nearly makes Ashe giggle. He supposes that one of the benefits of having his back-row position is the freedom to say what he truly thinks about anyone, consequences be damned. It’s an endearing thing, how honestly he speaks. 

“Well, I’d still like to look.” Ashe offers. “But it’s maybe not that urgent. Perhaps there’ll be a sketch from Ignatz inside.”

At the mention of their artistic compatriot, Cyril’s expression perks up somewhat. Still, he drops the letter on the larger pile, intended to be read by those serving under the two of them. 

“The next one is from Dedue.” Somehow, Cyril doesn’t even need to look down at the letters again to say it- he _remembers_ it, at a speed that makes Ashe somewhat envious. “But it’s marked as being for your eyes only.” 

_Another child? So soon?_

_Well, being in the royal castle must make child-rearing rather uncomplicated…_

“Sorry about that, Cyril. I’ll make sure it gets read, and if any of it is important, I’ll let you know.”

Silently, Cyril slips the letter onto the table and slides it towards Ashe, making no comment on the potential content of such a secretive letter. 

“Next one’s from your little brother.” 

_Another one I should handle myself_ , Ashe thinks. Though both of their pasts have been marked with grief, Ashe’s extant connection to living relatives is unique between them. The wistfulness which rises in Cyril’s eyes each time he reads out another letter from Ashe’s siblings often becomes too much to bear, and Ashe has no intention of bothering Cyril so early in the day. Instead of letting him open the letter, he strikes when it’s least expected, and plucks the thing out of Cyril’s hands. 

  
“It’s going to be a good day today.” Ashe tells him, and though Cyril offers no response, his cheeks alight with a subtle, knowing blush. 

The next letter, then, is the one that Ashe had taken for a mistake- what with its plain envelope and small wax seal. It surprises him, then, when Cyril doesn’t look twice at the thing as he picks it up, preparing to read off the sender and address.

“Mittelfrank Opera House. Enbarr.” The proper nouns roll off of Cyril’s tongue quite awkwardly, but Ashe gets the gist of it immediately. Intrigued, he leans forward slightly, gaze fixed on Cyril’s own expression as he surveys the document. He seems assured of its importance; and Ashe follows his lead. 

Inscribed upon the page, in handwriting Ashe doesn’t recognize (and can barely read), is a lavish invitation which hardly befits the humble envelope in which the message arrived. Once Ashe adjusts himself to reading the complicated cursive which adorns the page, he’s able to make out the first few words, but his attempt to read further is interrupted by Cyril beginning his typical narration. 

“ _Dear Ashe Ubert,_

_You are cordially invited to the wedding of Ingrid Brandl Galatea and Dorothea Arnault, to take place on the last day of the Garland Moon._

_The ceremony will be held at the Mittelfrank Opera Company in Enbarr, during the mid-Afternoon. Meals and tea will be provided for all celebrants._

_You are also invited to bring along a sole accompanying guest.”_

There’s clearly something at the end, Ashe thinks, judging by the way Cyril starts to speak, then cuts off again. What said thing might be, however, seems almost entirely irrelevant to Ashe in that moment, caught as he is on everything which comes before it. 

_Ingrid is getting married_. 

A long time ago, he’d doubted she would even remain with Dorothea in Enbarr. Her decision to leave Galatea had felt so _impulsive_ , even though she had received Dimitri’s blessing, and Sylvain and Felix’s reassurances that the territory would be well-kept. He hadn’t faulted her for it- in part, her desire to live the life of a commoner was what had convinced him social roles could be so _malleable_ , that he could take up the position of Gaspard’s lord. But he had, shamefully, doubted her ability to stick with a life where social and political power were not so easily found.

_This_ , Ashe supposes, is the final nail in the coffin where his doubt lays to rest. An announcement on Ingrid’s behalf of her marrying a commoner woman, an invite bearing no crested embellishment or silvered wax. It’s not an invite to one of the many noble weddings he’s harangued into attending for reasons of social standing. It’s a message from a _friend_. 

A message that makes him the last Blue Lion to marry. 

“You alright?”

Cyril’s words break Ashe from his trance-like state, and he squints to clear the fuzziness from his eyes. It takes a few seconds for him to speak; divided between his thinking of what to say and his speaking of the thing. 

“...Yes. I’m fine.” Somehow, he manages a slight, reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about me. I’m just thinking about the letter.”

“Well, don’t worry about it. I’m gonna do what we did last time, so you don’t have to worry.”

_Last time_. It’s surprising to Ashe, how long ago _last time_ is these days. In the turbulence of the post-war period, many of those in the social class he had so suddenly been elevated to had married, strategically forming alliances between each other while Ashe tried to scrape together the funds for food relief. Many had invited him, albeit reluctantly, to their celebratory functions. He had attended most of the ones he did only after he ran out of reasons to refuse; save for those held for friends or allies from the war. Amongst the former, he had enjoyed few, with the strongest candidates having been the ones where he had been plied with free alcohol the entire night. 

Of course, while he drank and cavorted (because that was what it _was_ , not “ _networking_ ” or “ _building alliances_ ”), someone had to run Gaspard. Initially, he’d palmed it off on whoever was most willing, but Cyril’s arrival had marked a turning point- as it did with many things. Cyril, as unfavourable as he found public appearances, was content to hold down the fort as Ashe did his best to maneuver amongst the rich and powerful. And Ashe had _trusted_ him, had been able to allow him the strange intimacy of governing the lands which had become an extension of himself. 

It had been that way many times. But something in Ashe _fights_ against the notion of allowing the same yet again, resorting to old systems simply to avoid thinking of alternatives. He’s not sure why- perhaps it’s because of a _friend’s_ wedding, or because it takes place in ex-Empire (perhaps soon to be Empire once more) territory. Either way, he halts at the word _yes_ , regardless of how easy he knows it should be. 

“Can you give me some time to think about it?” is what he says, instead. 

He can tell from the way Cyril’s eyebrows prick up that it’s not what his companion is expecting, and for a moment, he almost wants to take it back. But as he often does, Cyril speaks before Ashe can protest his own words. 

“No problem. Ya gotta tell ‘em what you want for dinner, though, so I can send the RSVP back.”

“Oh.” Ashe mutters, already struggling to focus. “Are there options?”

Cyril glances back down at the letter, before turning blithely to Ashe and shrugging. 

“Game, beef… or chicken.” 

He turns the letter over once more, inspecting the back for more details, but, clear in the way he scans the page with a quizzical expression, his search comes up empty. 

“Looks like that’s it.” 

“Game.” Ashe isn’t entirely sure that’s what he wants, but it’s the first thing on the list, and he’s not looking to protest. “I don’t mind, though.”

“I’ll remember that. Game. _G-A-M-E._ ” Cyril says, as if he never heard the last part- though Ashe is fairly sure he did.

Before Ashe can remind him, he switches the topic entirely.

“Did they tell ya about this?” 

Ashe shakes his head, trying to look as sincere as he can. Ingrid is the Lion he keeps perhaps the least contact with, save for Flayn. It’s not for lack of bond- they’ve always gotten on well- but without any administrative duties in Faerghus or elsewhere on Ingrid’s part, it’s hard for them to make consistent conversation. 

“It’s a bit of a shock to me, if I’m honest.” Ashe tries to accompany his words with a chuckle, but from the moment they come from his mouth, he knows it’ll only be hollow. “Ingrid does talk about Dorothea a bunch. But they hardly even need to marry. They have no territory, after all.”

Cyril shrugs, something clearly weighing on him.

“Some people just want to be together. And stuff like territory doesn’t matter, y’know?” 

Ashe smiles, though it’s a half-hearted attempt. 

“Probably figured that they didn’t want to get any older and _still_ be unmarried.”

_Ouch_. 

Ashe isn’t _exactly_ Ingrid’s age, but they’re close enough that the words sting him; remind him of how he hasn’t even _attempted_ courtship with someone yet. 

“Or maybe they’re having kids.”

He doesn’t have children, either. 

“Who’s to say?”

It’s in three weeks, and Ashe knows anyone willing to marry him in such a short space of time certainly has a defective sense of… _sense_ , to put it bluntly. Still, the impulsive thought of eloping does cross his mind, foolish as it is. 

“Yeah.” He doesn’t bother with a longer response. Instead, he shuffles the letters Cyril hasn’t opened into a drawer underneath his desk, resolving to read them when his constitution has improved. At the moment, he feels rather displaced, and it’s not a sensation he can imagine himself getting used to. 

“Thank you, Cyril.” he continues, his compatriot doing nothing but waiting to be dismissed. “You can leave when you’re done, you know. No need to wait for me.”

“Just sticking around in case you need something. What are friends for, after all?”

“Sticking together.” Ashe replies, some slight enthusiasm seeping back into him at the sound of the words of their promise. 

Cyril smiles at him, affirming, before departing the office, his words trailing behind him. 

“Meet you at dinner!”


	3. i know you

Something is wrong.

Cyril isn’t quite sure how he knows it, but he _knows_ it. It’s as if some cosmic balance has been upset, tipping everything in some strange direction. Strangeness hangs heavy in the air as he leaves the main part of Gaspard Castle, and it lingers as he makes his way to the wyvern stables.

Cyril, of course, had come to Gaspard accompanied by his wyvern- a novel presence which required several new structures to be implemented throughout the estate. After his research had confirmed that Gaspard was one of the few Faerghian regions where wyverns could be bred and reared without worry for temperature or weather, neither he or Ashe had wasted any time in importing a hardy breed from the Alliance and ensuring its propagation. The wyvern-rearing project is still new, at least within the context of a building which has existed for centuries; even then, it manages to be one of Cyril’s favourite expansions to the estate’s capacity. Indeed, the sight of the stone nesting barn fills him with a pride he struggles to describe in its entirety. 

At least, it _usually_ does. It almost shocks Cyril, how the out-of-placeness chases him around like a starving dog, nibbles away at the things which he can usually rely on to cheer him up. He can hardly understand where the feeling stems from, either. There is no force waiting for them over the hills, nor is there any reason for him to doubt the integrity of the newly-established peace. But as he crosses the bridge to where he examines the stables each Monday morning, the nervousness does not take its leave. It ebbs, as if unsure; still, Cyril lacks his focus. 

_Reminding myself of it is only going to make it more noticeable_ , Cyril tells himself, trying to focus on nothing but the air surrounding him and the parched grass underfoot

By the time he reaches the stable, his head is ducked, and his hands fumble with nothing but the air. 

The morning’s tasks are simple enough- _they don’t change, after all_. As much as Cyril loathes to admit it, the process of checking in on the stables so regularly is entirely an indulgence on his part; almost all of the meaningful tasks are being carried out by others, stewards and stablehands with jobs mostly pertaining to keeping the wyverns fed and flight-worthy. All roles Cyril can’t say he _misses_ , necessarily. And he knows that if he were never to come back to the stables- aside from to bond with his own wyvern, now an aging and ragged beast- there would be no hole where he once was, and few would notice.

Still, he comes. It’s something he once felt bad about, until Ashe had handed it to him as an actual job- Cyril doesn’t doubt that he _noticed_ him doing it, felt it was best to make it feel necessary.

He comes not solely to visit his own wyvern, but the rest of the fledgling flock. Still, she always gets priority. 

Cyril finds her shelter on instinct; doesn’t hesitate as he enters. Nor does she snap at him, as she might do with a stranger; no amount of time has managed to erase his scent from his flesh, after all. Slow, careful to mind the snout-scar that still aches from the war, he takes her head in his arms, leaning his own forehead on her shoulders.

“Can you feel it?”

He’s not sure why he bothers asking it; the words feel humiliatingly useless as soon as they leave his mouth.

_She’s only a wyvern_ , Cyril reminds himself. _If she does feel how you feel, how in the world is she gonna tell ya?_

It surprises him, then, when she rears up slightly to rub him against her, scraping Cyril’s soft skin with her own rough scales. A gesture, one he’d understood as a hostile thing upon his introduction to wyverns; only for him to find it was their own way of showing affection, albeit one unsuited for human constitutions.

“Maybe you do.” he whispers, shutting his eyes. “Maybe you know.”

He remains like that, in tender stasis, til the door opens.

Light floods in, and though Cyril’s eyes have closed on instinct, he knows that the comfortable darkness has been obstructed. Blinking away the lingering darkness, the shapes which move in the shadows of sleep-headiness, he turns towards the door; spies a stable-boy, no doubt entering on schedule to refill the bedding hay. Embarrassed, if only slightly, Cyril releases the winged beast from his grip, allowing a single pointed _whine_ from her before commanding her with the movement of a hand to return to nesting position.

The attendant is young; perhaps a year older than he was when he worked at the monastery. He reminds Cyril of Dimitri; all blonde-haired and pale, though with brown eyes better compared to someone like Sylvain. He’s clearly paused; though Cyril isn’t sure if it’s out of obedience or confusion. 

He nods, and mutters out a curt apology for his obstruction. 

“Sorry.” A single pat on his wyvern’s nose precludes Cyril reconstituting himself, wiping the expression of vulnerable sincerity off of his face as he does his best to project himself across the room. “I came to visit.”

The boy nods, and Cyril does his best to retreat, slipping out of the door without a proper goodbye. His heart sinks at the notion of doing so; but his stomach is heavy with the need to not be _seen_ , if just for a little while. 

And he’s the one getting in the way of someone doing their job, for once.

The wooden door slams shut behind him, and Cyril sighs, knowing that he won’t have reason to go back for a while. Still, it’s comforting, if only somewhat, that it’s not just him that feels the strangeness. 

_Or, she’s reacting to you being so weird,_ Cyril muses. 

It’s not something he wants to think about any further. With a sigh, he stretches his shoulders- an old archery exercise- and takes a deep breath. 

He supposes he might feel better when he has some more food in him- or an afternoon nap. 


	4. a deficit of sincerity

As always, Cyril meets with Ashe for dinner. 

Almost always, it’s the second dinner of the night that they attend. Their presence is required at the staff dinner, if solely for purposes of socialization; a more intimate setting is possible only later at night. Still, it’s a concession they’re both willing to make; their long work hours preventing them from frequent daytime socialization. 

With the way Ashe is acting, however, Cyril can’t help the feeling that he should have ate his fill amongst the other advisors. 

It’s not that he’s being _quiet_. Cyril can live with _quiet_ \- has lived with it before, even. They both live busy lives, and for Ashe to take his time recuperating at dinner is hardly unusual. It’s that he’s being _distant_ , eyes hardly meeting Cyril’s when he looks up, their hands only touching in the brief moment they both reach to pick up the decanter of sea salt Ashe tenderly places at the centre of their small office table each time they meet. 

The sensation is frustrating, to say the least. And though Cyril _knows_ he’s gotten used to letting Ashe’s stranger behaviours go unchecked (because if you ask him, he’ll tell you there’s no such thing as ghosts- _spirits_ , however, are another matter), he can hardly resist the urge to speak up, tolerance growing weaker each time Ashe furrows his brows and chews pensively on one of the cuts of pork he’s cooked for the two of them. 

It’s when he _sighs_ , much too loud for it to be kept entirely to himself, that Cyril speaks up. 

“Something’s wrong.” He _states_ it, finds it unnecessary to pose it as a question. “Ya aren’t being yourself, Ashe.”

The words prompt Ashe to look up from where he stares down at his plate, the single lit candle casting hard shadows across his aching face so harshly that Cyril almost draws away. He doesn’t speak, though, not at first. 

Not until he’s spent at least a minute looking Cyril in the eye, gaze heavy with unease and unspoken questions. Certainly not an expression Cyril’s unfamiliar with, not after years of war. But one he’s fairly sure he never wants to see Ashe make, not as long as he draws breath. 

Still, he waits until Ashe chooses to speak, unsure of what he could possibly say to make anything better. 

“It’s strange that neither of us have married, isn’t it?”

The question takes Cyril aback, rendering him incapable of speech for a good few seconds. When he manages anything, it’s in the form of spluttered syllables, hardly forming full words- all the while, Ashe looks at him, clearly gaining no reassurance from Cyril’s lack of confident answer. 

“It’s okay.” Ashe murmurs, though the words ring hollow. “You don’t have to try and make me feel better. I shouldn’t have asked you.”

Cyril attempts to summon the composure to reply, but he finds each rock he rests upon to be wet with doubt, and all he makes is a vague and shaking sound of acknowledgement. It takes him a minute- a minute of Ashe gazing emptily into the distance, focusing on nothing- for him to find anything worth saying, and another for him to feel able to say it. 

He’s not sure if it’s a good thing, or a bad thing, that he finds it so difficult to speak as decisively as he does around others when it comes to Ashe. 

“It’s not strange I haven’t married.” Cyril begins, voice heavy. “I don’t mind, though. I’m kinda used to it- I mean, who would I marry?” 

Ashe blinks twice, as if he’s confused by Cyril’s statement. 

“Someone who likes you a lot.” he mumbles, and the sorrowful sincerity of it nearly makes Cyril melt. “That’s what everyone wants.” 

“Not a lot of people like me a lot. And I don’t exactly do much to help that, do I?”

It’s Ashe’s turn to remain revelationarily silent, lips pursed and eyes diverted from Cyril’s face. Which, if anything, Cyril finds _endearing_ , though he’s internally sure he wouldn’t appreciate the lack of sincerity from anyone else. 

“I’m not as warm as you. And that’s okay- I mean, I think.” Cyril continues, idly pushing food around on his plate with his fork. “Plus, I don’t meet a lot of people.”

“I could help introduce you. All you have to do is say.” Ashe offers. At such a sentiment, Cyril can’t help but _chuckle_ , albeit reluctantly. 

“No thanks. I like my privacy.”

“...I understand.” Ashe mumbles, though at least to Cyril, the hesitancy in his voice is clear. “So, maybe you don’t want to marry. Not right now, at least. But- and you can be honest, I _promise_ \- is it weird that _I_ haven’t?”

Though some enthusiasm, some conviction, has slipped back into Ashe’s voice, it’s hard for Cyril to find that _positive_. Not when he’s looking for Cyril to criticize him- the only person he’s ever felt like hiding his opinions around without it being _necessary_ \- on some front that he feels hardly qualified to give any expert opinion on. 

Still. If it’s what Ashe wants, Cyril will steal his nerves, and speak his truth. 

“Yeah. I’ve always thought you’d do it years ago, you know?” 

Ashe’s face sinks, but not with dismay. Rather, with evident consideration, gaze unfixed and detached from himself. 

“You’re a good person. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have followed ya all the way from Garreg Mach, right? And I think that’s what a woman would want. Someone as nice as you, even when they’re grumpy and acting like they don’t need you around.” 

“Like, when you refused my help? Back at the Academy?” 

“Yeah.” Truthfully, Cyril isn’t really sure why Ashe has picked _that_ out as an example. But if it helps illustrate his argument, he can’t quite bring himself to mind it. “Like that. Plus, you’re all important now. Even if some of the other lords don’t act like it.” 

“And a woman would marry me for my prestige, then?”

Cyril shrugs, as if he’s unsure of the problem. 

“That’s how people with lots of stuff do this kind of thing. Now it doesn’t matter if you have a crest or not, there are probably girls lining up to marry ya.” 

“And it’s strange I haven’t gone for any of them…?”

Again, Cyril shrugs. 

“Yeah. But, it’s not like I _care_ if you wanna be strange. You’re nice, and you’re good at your job.”

Ashe pauses; and hesitates. Still, he speaks. 

“Maybe… Maybe, I should try and find somebody.” 

The words incur a twitching sensation in Cyril’s body, but it’s one he’s keen to repress. He focuses, instead, on Ashe’s prospecting, and on the sullen pensiveness of the upturned corners of his lips. 

  
When he says nothing, Cyril lets his fork slide down onto his plate. Whatever appetite he had seems to be vanishing from him, and he’s not sure he cares if it becomes stained from the sundry ingredients piled on the thing. 

“I’ll help you find someone, then.” He says it resolutely, with what little strength remains in his chest. “Leave it to me.”

“Oh.” 

The response Ashe gives him hardly counts as a word- it’s more of a sound, Cyril thinks. Still, it’s not a rejection. And he needs something, _anything_ , to cleave him from the encroaching selfishness inside himself. The selfishness which wants nothing more than to encourage him to let things just _be_. 

“Ya just need to tell me what kinds of people you like.”

“...Okay.”

When Cyril looks over at Ashe, he realizes a sudden sullenness has pervaded his gaze. It’s another thing he tries to put out of his mind as he nods, encouraging, at his companion. 

Briefly, he can see Ashe contemplate the matter. 

“I… Uh. I kind of had a crush on Dimitri, back when we were in the Academy.”

Cyril reaches over to his pocket, with the intent of pulling out a small pad of paper sheets bound with metal rings- a nifty thing, handed to him once by Lysithea- and a pencil. His note-taking stops, however, when Ashe mutters something under his breath. 

“But I kind of lost that, after I’d spent more time with other people.”

“Right.” 

In the silence that follows, Cyril manages to slip both implements from his pocket regardless. 

“And he’s handsome, still. Don’t get me wrong!” A low, uneasy chuckle rises from Ashe’s throat. “But he’s married. And, you know, he really loves Dedue.” 

_That’s not noteworthy_ , Cyril mutters, albeit only in the silence of his own mind. 

“Alright. What do you think about Dedue?”

Ashe’s countenance turns quizzical, as if Cyril has asked him something impossible. Which he resents, if only slightly, because he’s _trying_ to help Ashe out. 

“He’s my best friend- aside from you. He means a lot to me.” 

Cyril balances the writing-pad on his leg, underneath the table, and adjusts his hand to best take quiet notes. 

“D’you think he’s good-looking?” 

  
“What?” 

Again, the dumbstruck expression spreads across Ashe’s face, only confusing Cyril further. 

“Of course I think he’s good-looking. I don’t know if anyone _doesn’t_ think he is. But- he’s married. Very married!” 

Cyril huffs, and his pencil-holding hand twitches from the inactivity. 

“Well, I’m not askin’ ya to date either of them. I’m trying to figure out what sorta things your person should look like.”

Briefly, Cyril recounts to himself all the qualities that Dimitri and Dedue share. 

_Both men. Tall, and fair haired. Not the same-coloured eyes, but kind of similar. Muscular, and strong… Their skin colour is different, and their body types are kind of different too, so I guess he doesn’t mind those things._

_Nothing like me-_

_Don’t think like that._

Pensively, feigning inaction all the while, Cyril scrawls down the bare-bones notes on the paper he’s _fairly_ sure lies underneath his hand. 

“It’s not about looks. I mean, it kind of is, but I don’t think I could ask for anyone to be super, super attractive for me to date them. I look older than I am, and I don’t really have any muscles.”

Instinctively, Cyril wants to contend Ashe’s anxieties about the likeability of his body. He says silent, though, and crosses out his first few notes he’s made. All the while, trying not to dwell on how doing so makes him feel _better_. 

“A nice person. And how they look isn’t gonna matter. Is that what you mean?” 

“I guess. I… Yeah. You could say it like that.”

Cyril certainly isn’t sure how to compress _that_ sentiment into a brief note. Silently, he curses how small the damned paper sheet is. 

“I’ll write some letters tomorrow. To people who are nice, and stuff like that.” 

“...If you want.”

Cyril isn’t sure what he wants. He’s not sure what part of him wants what, or which parts are to be trusted, or if he’s even able to admit to himself what he wants. 

In the absence of such meaningful self-understanding, he just wants to _keep going_ , to find his way out of having to face any feelings he can’t afford to have. 

“‘Course I want to help you out. Best friends, right?” 

The corners of Ashe’s lips turn upwards, and he laughs, albeit brief. 

Cyril can’t help noticing the way he hesitates at the end, as if he’s being insincere. Still, he laughs along.

If he’s being insincere, then he supposes they may as well be insincere together. 


	5. twice-borne hungers

Ashe doesn’t finish his meal.

It hurts the part of him that once struggled for a meal to leave the plate behind, half-full and still slightly warm. Every step he takes out of his emptied office is marked with him turning backwards and gazing at the plate, guilt and stress beginning to compound inside of him. He knows the plight of the hungry, the weak, the abandoned- how food like this means more than anything to some. And he’s not proud to have the privilege which lets him leave it to the side, without the fear of finding some other meal later on welling up inside of him. 

But he can’t stomach another mouthful, no matter how hard he tries. He’d eaten, if only for show, long after his appetite had initially vanished from him- during his conversation with Cyril, or thereabouts. Now that Cyril has departed, Ashe can hardly bring himself to swallow another forkful. No matter how well-cooked and tender the meat, or how richly seasoned the sauce which envelops it, the prospect of stomaching any more of it sends him shaking. Frankly, so does the idea of being awake for much longer. Which explains to him the feeling of relief that swamps him when he’s finally able to surmount his intangible guilt and head for the privacy of his room, its soft and comforting solitude. 

It’s not far from his office- no doubt a deliberate choice in the construction of the estate. Moreover, he knows each step he needs to take down the path, can walk it in the silence of the night and without the candle-light which is maintained until the house-staff take their rest. He finds some empty comfort in the predictability of it, and in the way his _home_ rubs up against the daunting spectre of the future. 

By the time he reaches his door, entirely alone, he sighs. The walk hasn’t been enough to clear his mind of its doubts, and in each second he’s not consciously distracting himself, conflicting thoughts pervade every corner of his perception. 

_Do I want this? I don’t want to put Cyril down, but…_

_Was it strange, to tell Cyril that I once had a boyhood crush on the king? Did that undermine me as a lord?_

_If I end up courting, and starting a family, will he be lonely? After all, he says he’s going to look for someone for me, but he’s not interested in finding his own partner. Still, he deserves one._

At some point, Ashe begins doffing the constraints of his clothing, letting them pool at his feet until he steps out of them. He finds whatever motivation he usually summons in sorting his own wardrobe to be entirely absent, and he doesn’t pick the clothes up from where they lie, forming the abstract shapes of defeated warriors on a battleground. 

Slowly, an unknown ache pervading him, he sinks down onto his bed. In all the years he’s slept on it, he’s never entirely gotten used to the sensation of its warmth, its goose-down softness and its fine stitching. He supposes that he might never feel entirely at home inside of its sheets- but that has never stopped it providing its sorely-needed comfort. When it comes to sleeping places, that’s all Ashe has ever asked. 

Despite the exhaustion of his day’s work, his thoughts of coupling continue to occupy him. After all, he sleeps on a double bed, with its extra space practically _waiting_ to be filled by some (hopefully) eager figure. Ashe _knows_ that there’s something incomplete- but any completion feels wrong, even in the confines of his imagination. 

Moments before rest overtakes him forcefully, he tries to imagine whose face might lie, still but breathing, on the pillow adjacent to his own. He summons nothing- not before he ends up deep in a dreamless sleep. 


	6. keep drinking, keep going

“I dunno if you’ve ever woken up this late, you know.”

Sitting parallel to Cyril, a lukewarm plate of leftover breakfast foods between them, Ashe can’t bring himself to describe the situation as anything but _embarrassing_. Though Cyril hasn’t told him the time, even a brief glance confirms to him the rapid approach of early afternoon. Hours after he should be up- and yet, he’s only just awakened. Between the numbing ache in his head and the flush on his cheeks, he can hardly bring himself to make eye contact with his advisor. Who, despite everything, sits calm and unphased across from him. 

“Sorry.” 

The word is winced from Ashe’s mouth, quiet and unsteady, and followed not by any clarification but by a series of concerted grunts as he pours a brown liquid from a clay jug into a small ceramic cup laid out for him. He can’t remember the name of the drink, but he recognizes the smell and envisions the taste as it pours. Some sort of Dagdan energy concoction- no doubt prepared by Cyril after finding his Lord in unbothered sleep in the late morning. 

“I didn’t sleep well.”

“Oh. Nightmares?” 

Repurposed teacup clattering on the small dish beneath it as he does, Ashe shakes his head. 

“No. I didn’t dream at all, actually.”

“Huh.” Cyril purses his lips in thought. “Were you up late?” 

Again, Ashe shakes his head. 

  
“Perhaps a little later than usual. But that happens, sometimes.” 

Cyril’s eyes narrow at him, and Ashe forces himself to chuckle reassuringly when he notices it. He’s hardly in the mood for one of Cyril’s badgerings on the topic of bringing paperwork to bed with him, even their casual conversation grating against the pain between his ears. 

“Not on purpose.”

When Cyril’s grimace dissipates, he sighs, and relaxes his shoulder muscles somewhat. Taking advantage of the silence, Ashe picks the now-filled teacup from its saucer. Careful to avoid the back of his finger brushing the heated surface of the impromptu demitasse, he brings it to his lips and takes a careful, gentle sip of the strong liquid. 

When he peers over the rim of the vessel, it’s clear from the intensity of his gaze that Cyril is still observing every move he makes. In gentle recognition of his presence, Ashe flashes him the closest thing he can make to a grin while still drinking. 

Between the heat of the liquid and the upright comfort of the chair, he struggles to say he’s not waking up. But the ache remains, even in the smallest things he does. None of which he’s told Cyril- so he refrains from complaint when he pulls a stack of paper from seemingly nowhere (though most likely from underneath the tea-table they’re awkwardly taking a late breakfast at) and slides them towards him. 

“Bunch of papers for you here.” Cyril mutters, as Ashe puts his cup down to leaf tentatively through them with his thumb. “Told ya I had my doubts about the new licensing laws.” 

_All venues preparing and serving beverages containing alcohol must appeal to the Noble Council of Gaspard for provision of a license to do so. Failure to obtain a valid license within four months of operations under this law will make any any all proprietors subject to-_

“Everyone in the territory wants your attention now.” 

“So these are all letters of complaint?”

“Nuh-huh.” Cyril shakes his head. “I got rid of those for you. _These_ are all the letters from people who need you to send their cases off to the council.”

“Oh.” Ashe’s teaspoon drops from his hand, a casualty of his surprise, and clinks against the side of the cup as it does. “Is this why you said it’d be better for someone else to handle them?” 

“Mhm. Lotta people drink, so there’s a lotta money to be made from it.”

Ashe ponders, distracted, the matter of drinking. He finds he rather likes the sound of it. 

“Which means-” Cyril begins, shuffling the papers into order, “-we need to deal with this. All sorts of tax money comes from these places, so we can’t let them get shut down.”

Ashe knows well that there’s nothing to be disagreed with in Cyril’s logic; even if he’d rather not contend with so much paperwork. As a show of agreement, he shuffles the stack closer to himself and rests his elbow on the top of the sheets. In their numbers, they almost intimidate him. But even if Cyril would understand, he can’t find it in himself to shift the burden to another day, regardless of the pain which rings inside of his head. 

“I should have listened to you.”

“Nah. I shouldn’t have let you walk your way into a big stack of papers.”

The stalemate stands as it is for a few seconds, before Cyril reaches over to grab an approximated half of the document stack. Briefly, Ashe attempts to repel him, but he finds his body uncooperative with the panic of his mind. By the time he has a single hand clasped around Cyril’s wrist, the sheets are secured in his other hand, and Ashe whines in objection. 

“You don’t have to do this for me, Cyril.”

Despite Ashe’s objections, Cyril shakes his head and draws his paper-full hand closer to himself. His expression is resolute, and Ashe gets the distinct feeling that his advisor will not be overcome in any simple fashion. 

“I’m gonna help you out. Even if you moan about it.”

He’s reminded, then, of their very first interactions, where he had insisted on giving Cyril his assistance in stacking books. Cyril had resisted him, insisting that the burden was best placed on him for reasons of both status and pride. It had been his dogged resistance which eventually allowed him to assist. Moreover, he sees the parallels between then and his present resistance, and the more he considers the matter the looser his grip on Cyril’s wrist becomes. When he finally releases the stiff arm from underneath him, Cyril rewards him with a vague grumble of approval, and a look that leaves him with little doubt that they’re thinking of the same incidents from the past. 

“Alright. Because we’re best friends.” Ashe concedes. “But don’t stress over them, alright?”

Still resolute, Cyril shakes his head. “I won’t. I’m already busy today, anyway.”

“With what?”

“The letters.” Cyril mutters, nonchalant. 

Though the specific letters that Cyril refers to are, initially, lost on Ashe, it doesn’t take long for realization to overtake him. Nor does it take long for his expression to shift; a jagged turn from humoured resignation to blank-faced apprehension. With Cyril’s gaze fixed on the far distance, he doesn’t notice the change, and he continues unabated. 

“I thought about the people I’m gonna send stuff to. Some friends, and a couple noble girls. But if you don’t like any of ‘em, tell me, alright?” 

As self-assured as he sounds, Ashe can’t bring himself to say much against Cyril’s agenda. He mumbles a plaintive affirmation under his breath, instead. Though he’s barely sure if he even wants Cyril to go ahead with his plan, he can’t summon any good reason to reject it. 

_He’s right, after all. You’ve been neglecting something important. Now is your chance to make that better_. 

“I’m gonna think for the rest of the day what I can say, and I should have them mailed later. Along with the license stuff.” 

Cyril pauses, briefly, to glance down at Ashe- though Ashe only realizes after it’s too late for him to hide his gaunt expression. Something in Cyril’s own face softens, and he pats Ashe on the back with his single free hand. 

“You can try and get this stuff done today. But- uh, I’m sure it can wait until tomorrow, if it has to.”

Stubbornly, Ashe groans in obstinate rejection.

“I can handle it.”

“...Alright. If you say so.”

Under his breath, Ashe makes another sound of vague approval. He draws the papers closer to him; as if to reinforce his commitment to the work- sensing the encroaching end of their conversation, Cyril gets up from his seat at the table. His hand draws away from Ashe’s shoulder much more gradually, only fully letting go when he can no longer touch him with the distance between them. 

“Hang in there.”

The words are empty comfort, providing little to soothe the sensation of having a brick dropped on his chest from great height. Still, Ashe waves Cyril off with a nod, and only allows himself to sink down, head-in-arms, when the last trace of his footsteps dissipate into empty air. 

He doesn’t move, not an inch, until one of the house-staff- a tall, middle-aged woman with chestnut-brown hair- enters the room, clearly set on cleaning the trappings of the impromptu breakfast hall. 

In the way her eyes meet his, Ashe is sure that the sight in front of her is nothing close to anything she’s expected to see. He almost apologizes for the sight of him, on simple instinct alone- he can’t imagine himself to look particularly dignified, curled up over himself and a half-empty cup of some strange foreign liquid. It’s an instinct he resists, though only after only he decides that an expression of guilt is only going to humiliate him further.

He does, however, nudge the half-empty cup slightly closer to her, lukewarm and still-atop its saucer.

“I’ll clean the place up myself- I’m so sorry for the state of it.” 

He’s not sure if he’s referring to himself, or the table, though he thinks he may as well be talking about both. 

“Though it’d be very kind of you to refill my cup, if you have anything on hand.”


	7. not worth the paper it's written on

All things considered, Cyril doesn’t entirely mind how far away his personal office is from the rest of the Estate. Though it makes for long walks there and back, he can afford such small indulgences if he’s prudent with his time the rest of the day. Particularly when the crossing from the castle manor to the North Tower brings him over the tallest exterior bridge of Gaspard Estate, a great stone thing aging gracefully over a meadow-dotted landscape with the nearby towns and villages visible for those with good enough vision. Perhaps it was once a point of vantage for Castle archers, its height and panoramic view intended to defend against incoming raiders and assist in spotting fires over a long distance. But in the embrace of peacetime, Cyril can’t help himself finding the mid-afternoon expanse set in front of him a rather transfixing sight.

There _are_ other advantages. Considering the walk, there’s very little else in the North Tower, save for stairwells leading to the livestock pens and cellars containing preserved goods and liquors. People think twice- or simply give up- before they bother him. His most private and urgent deeds can be carried out within its confines. Writing letters to Ashe’s potential wives is no exception. Nothing and nobody disturbs him, save for a member of the house-staff dashing to the cellar (which Cyril notes as being rather odd, but doesn’t interfere with), as he sits, blank-minded and unenthused before several sheets of paper entirely blank save for his name on the top left corner. 

Several discarded sheets, covered with splattered ink blots, lay next to his left arm, warmed by the incoming sunlight filtered through a narrow window. Each time Cyril glances over at them, he winces, both at the waste and the process of creating it. _He_ was the one to designate these letters as urgent- yet no force he’s capable of wielding seems interested in even beginning to write them out. And each moment his quill-holding hand hovers over the sheet he’s replaced his previous malfunctions with, another drop of ink threatens to fall and lay ruin to the next awaiting document underneath his folded arms. 

Cyril tries to start from the beginning, albeit for what might be the thousandth time. He recites the structure of a letter in his mind, the sophisticated candor of a noble-style instruction on the matter his backbone ever since attending Garreg Mach. 

_Introduction. Purpose of writing. Proposal, then your argument for the proposal- but don’t actually try and argue. Well-wishes?_

Still, it comes to him half-formed and clumsy, as if choosing to eschew the hundreds of times he’s followed it like clockwork. Though he knows of the introduction, every idea he has for beginning one falls apart as he ducks the quill to the paper. His literary voice is stolen from him, with no rhyme or reason, each time he tries to put his words to paper. 

He’d be lying if he said it didn’t frustrate him. Telling the time within his office is an ordeal, particularly without any ability to perform magic on his part. But judging from the movement of the sun over the sky, how it casts its light through windows and brightens the stone-walled confines of the place, he must have spent two hours on deliberating the matter without any progress. But none of his other work compels him, nor does he feel content to begin anything else. As if some strange power has overtaken him, he cannot bring himself to touch.

In the silence, Cyril admits to himself that, yes, to struggle with work he’s completely unenthusiastic about is probably natural. Which is not to say that sending continent-wide missives to whoever might hear him out on Ashe’s virtues is an idea which he struggles with. If there’s any enthusiasm within him for the current task, he’s sure it stems from that. But putting his words down carries with it a strangling futility, too; nothing conveyed on a page seems fully capable of conveying the entirety of Ashe’s kindness and wonder. And if he were to write his edict to a woman incapable of caring for him, of nurturing his vision for Gaspard alongside herself, he might truly never forgive himself. 

He remains that way for what he guesses must be half an hour; perhaps even longer. Somewhere along the line, he abandons the notion that he will be suddenly struck with some great inspiration, and returns the quill to its ink-pot. Doing so also unintentionally allows him to better hold his head between his hands and cradle his great internal frustration like a newborn babe. 

It is after another hour passes that he gives up, and allows himself to scrawl a familiar name below his on his mostly-fresh sheet of parchment. 

_To Petra,_

_I hope that you have been faring well in these prosperous times. I and Lord Ashe have been watching the flourishing of Brigid’s economic and political conditions with great interest, and as always, you may count on our support in all future matters of trade and diplomacy. In much the same vein, we are both grateful for your continued partnership and investment with Gaspard. As always, if there is anything you desire, we will do our earnest best to fulfill your needs and express our deep gratitude._

_However; this letter comes to you not with propositions of trade or transport routes, but of more personal matters. I have been made aware by your lack of a missive on the subject that you remain unmarried, despite your position as the reigning monarch of Brigid. I understand that matters of timeliness and propriety must be considered when choosing to marry, and I hope that you will not see this letter as an indictment of your ability to rule. But I believe that we have come across a matter of potential shared interest, and would like to propose, in no uncertain terms, a marriage between Ashe and you._

_This is not something which we have discussed before, and I appreciate that it may seem rather sudden. But the matter of his marriage has become rapidly pertinent, and I have taken it upon myself to find him a suitable bride. As you are already well-acquainted with him, I believe that it may be a waste of this space to extol Ashe’s virtues to you. As I am sure you are aware, Ashe is a wonderful, intelligent and kind individual, with no shortage of empathy and taste. His commitment to the improvement of Gaspard territory has produced previously unknown prosperity, and his lifestyle is befitting that of a well-mannered married man. He is not solely an ideal candidate by nature of his personal virtue, either. As a long-time companion of King Dimitri and the Archbishop of Fodlan, his connections within Fodlan and internationally are robust and can provide many advantages in matters of trade and diplomacy. His territory is wealthy and prosperous, and its climate is amongst the warmest and gentlest of Faerghus._

_I have no doubt that Ashe holds you in great esteem; as do I. I believe that he would be a wonderful companion on an individual level, and an ideal king, whose talents have been demonstrated already. He would make, too, an excellent father, a judgement I make based on his interactions with the children of the estate and the territory, a great boon to the inevitable need for heirs within a royal line of succession._

_I hope that you will consider this proposition, and that you will endeavour to enter negotiations on the matter when it is possible for you to do so. We are prepared to make any and all necessary voyages to Brigid in order to finalize the matter, and we would be delighted to host a diplomatic convoy sent our way._

_With best wishes and infinite goodwill,_

_Cyril._

_To Lysithea,_

_I hope that the current times have brought you much good fortune, and that your experiments with Professor Hanneman have progressed as fruitful as expected. I apologise for the length of time since we have had a full and honest conversation; there are times where operating a noble territory can place too great of a burden on one’s personal life. Please forgive me if some details of our last letters have slipped my mind somewhat._

_I write to you today with a proposal in mind. Specifically, one of marriage. I do not believe you to be currently in a marital bond- please forgive me if I have misremembered on this front, as I truly do not mean to cause offense. If you are, please disregard the remainder of this letter, and continue unabated with your life. But if you are not; then I humbly request you think on the matter I bring forth to you._

_As you know, for the past eight years or so, I have been the chief advisor in Gaspard territory, located in Faerghus. You are no doubt familiar with Ashe, the current lord, as I am aware he was one of your classmates, and while you did not necessarily fight together in the war, you both survived it. I am aware that you have potentially not had the chance to converse in full; still, I assure you wholeheartedly that Lord Ashe is a wonderful individual in all senses possible to consider, and that he has no shortage of qualities which will endear him to a woman as lovely and kind as you. Moreover, his land-holdings are significant, and the wealth of the territory is rapidly expanding. Gaspard is one of the most temperate and fertile regions of Faerghus, though it would no doubt benefit from the presence of a wise and knowledgeable lady. Though the appeal of the nobility may have worn off for you, I have faith that the Kingdom will soon be reshaped into a realm where considerations of bloodline are irrelevant, and you will no longer have to fret the potential of being exploited for your inheritance. I have full faith, too, in Lord Ashe securing a bright and pleasant future for you, regardless of the fortunes you encounter._

_I wish for you to consider an encounter with Lord Ashe, organized by myself. He is a skilled cook, and I do not doubt that he will be able to prepare a delicious and filling meal for you upon your arrival. Castle Gaspard has many scenic vistas within its grounds, and contains within valuable works of art, waiting to entertain guests. Our combined assurances will be put forward in regards to your enjoyment of this visit. If you find such a visit enjoyable, then I am sure you and Lord Ashe will be able to enter into a successful marriage together._

_If you are amicable to this prospect, please write back to me soon._

_Yours,_

_Cyril._

-

No part of Cyril feels any pride on the matter of his first two letters being to those he already knows. Though both Petra and Lysithea are ideal candidates for marriage, it is not as if writing to either of them poses any particular challenge. Not when he’s well-acquainted with them, and any mistakes or offenses can be buffed away with friendly empathy. When he _trusts them_ to do right by Ashe, the person most dear and precious to him. It seems barely anything like an achievement, is perhaps worse than having put down nothing at all. 

Still- he has done something. And if he does not focus on the finer details of the matter, he can act as if the itch within him to write has been sated, and that to do so is enough for him. Even when the pile of papers remains beneath his nose, unmarked and without any progress. 

He leans backwards in his chair, tensing and relaxing his back muscles until some of the ache built from hunching over releases itself. Gently, as to not disturb any remaining wet ink, he slides the two completed letters to the side of the desk warmed by the sun, and after five minutes or so of waiting, he prepares the river-blue wax seal of the Gaspard estate alongside two marked envelopes. The process is ritual to him, and little time passes before both are inscribed with their correct addresses and destination of origin. With great care not to disturb the fastening of the envelope, Cyril slips both into a small carrying bag brought with him from the main estate. 

He knows that he should stay. The work he needs to do is not complete; even if he feels incapable of going further with it. But he has grown sick of his indecision, and of his own stubbornness in allowing his feelings to interfere with the matter of finding Ashe a suitable wife. Not when he is so sure of his own interference in the matter, having forgotten to do as he should have done for years, spending the entire time making _himself_ the most important person to Ashe. 

He decides that it is best if he goes, and returns to face the matter when he has obtained more clarity divested himself of his self-interest. 

For the rest of the day, Cyril says little to Ashe. 

It’s not that he has few chances. He has plenty; in fact. They meet as usual for dinner and debriefing, but neither volunteers more than cursory nods over food and confirmation that what work they assigned for themselves is done. When Cyril eats little from his plate, Ashe deigns not to question it, and allows him his leave without asking what might have put him off of his most substantial meal of the day. He chooses, instead, to force the rest of his food down, and to depart for his own room as soon as he’s able. 

At no point do either of them make mention of the Vine Dance, to be held in two days. Nor do either of them think about the matter as they make their beds and take their rest. But the date of the celebration approaches, nevertheless. 


	8. look good/say whatever

Something strange is nearly always happening around the estate. 

Over time, it’s something Ashe has become acquainted with. It’s nothing compared to the years of the war, or even his time at Garreg Mach, and he can’t say he’s not thankful for that. But there is always something, no matter how minor, for him to deal with.

Still, waking up to hallways decked with greenery and ribbons for no apparent reason is new to him. 

It takes him departing from the residential quarters down to the main hall of the estate to realize what’s going on, a journey marked by numerous encounters with performers and artisans of all sorts chattering away with each other for reasons unclear. Almost swept off of his feet by their movements, he finds himself searching in the crowd for anything- anyone- which might clarify the purpose of such ruckus. 

He finds Cyril, hands firm behind his back, in the middle of the great hall. 

“W-what’s going on?” 

His voice is nearly drowned out by the commotion, and it comes out much weaker than he’d like. Still, it makes Cyril turn around, his eyes widening as he finds Ashe behind him. 

“Ashe! I was beginning to think you weren’t comin’.” 

“W-well,” he splutters, “I’m here now. But if I’m honest with you, I don’t think I know what’s going on.”

“That makes both of us.” 

With how coordinated and practiced everything which surrounds him seems to be, it’s hard for Ashe to believe that they’ve both managed to forget entirely about whatever is happening all around them. But his memories of the last few days are of nothing but emotional entropy and endless paperwork; muddled to the extent he doubts he’s talked to anyone but Cyril since daybreak on Wednesday. And as embarrassing as it is to admit it to himself, it would hardly be the first time he’s forgotten something so significant in the midst of his other duties and obligations. Though, it might be the first time _Cyril_ has forgotten something like this. 

“Vine festival.” Cyril continues, as if he’s breathless. “I’ll be honest with ya, I don’t remember it being this big last year.”

Ashe doesn’t, either. His eyebrows furrowed, he re-examines the setup of the hall, taking in once again the sundry decorations which coat the wall from floor to ceiling. This time, he realizes rather quickly the recurring imagery of grape-vine and bushels of the fruit, and as his vision is cast to the far end of the hall, he catches sight of many light-wood barrels layered on top of each other, all being fussed over by various figures decked in simple farmer’s formalwear. 

“M-me neither.” As Ashe speaks, he finds that his own words are being spoken in the same breathless tone as Cyril’s. But if he’s to judge by the erratic beat of his heart, the strangeness of his tone might best be attributed to a creeping nervousness, one which only builds at the sight of even more artisans and tradespeople flooding into the supposed celebration. 

“Seems like it’s going okay. People look like they know what’s going on.” 

Under his breath, Ashe sighs. 

“That’s true. Um, maybe we could ask around, and see what they want _us_ to do?”

“Did that.” Cyril mutters, nonchalant. “Not much. But we gotta give a speech later, and show up to the dance.”

“I don’t like the idea of writing a whole speech in one day. I have to make a good impression, after all.”

“You make a good impression all the time. Besides, half the people are gonna be drunk by that point anyway.” 

“Of course. The wine.” Ashe glances back towards the barrels, increasing in number even as they speak. “I hope that means they’ll remember all of this as better than it was.”

“Yeah. I hope everyone forgets what it looks like when I’m dancing.” 

“You’re planning to dance?” 

The idle fiddling of Cyril’s fingers behind his back ceases, and Ashe finds his advisor’s face filling with betrayed confusion. 

“We both are, Ashe. I told ya, we have to attend the dance.” 

“Oh.”

  
The corners of Ashe’s mouth sink, forming a gentle frown. 

“We’re not just standing to the side?” 

As clearly unenthused by the prospect as Ashe, Cyril shakes his head. One hand moves behind his back as he begins to speak, scratching nervously at the shaded skin of his neck. 

  
“Nah. They changed it.” It’s clear from his voice, at least to Ashe, that he’s trying to project a confidence he can’t quite muster within himself. “Seems like they’ve changed a lot of things.”

From the year prior, Ashe can only remember simpler scenes of cheerful merrymaking and an easily-cleaned-up-after party. Neither of their presences had been required, and Ashe had only shown himself as an act of goodwill. There was certainly no dancing, nor were they any speeches. Even after a full minute of silent contemplation, he can’t remember authorizing the expansion of the event. The last he’d thought about it at all was in April, when he’d delegated it to one of the household managers. Which, Ashe reasons with himself, had seemed like a much better idea at the time. 

“I don’t mind it. But I don’t know if I can pretend to enjoy it.”

He’s not a good dancer. And it’s certainly no skin off of his back to admit that, to himself or to others. Certainly, he’s much less practiced than most nobles _and_ most commoners, never having spent enough time in either world to pick up on any style of the art. And while the calm inevitability of being made to dance provides some limited balm to his anxious soul, it doesn’t do much to assuage his fear of embarrassing himself in front of those he might one day need to impress. 

“I don’t know if I’m even gonna try and pretend.” Cyril grumbles, having moved on to cleaning his nails out with a knife. Ashe doesn’t comment, familiar as he is with Cyril’s nervous tics. “I think everyone who says they have fun dancing is secretly lying about it. But I don’t care about pretending to like it.”

“I don’t think everyone is lying about it.” Ashe knows _some_ people are, but he’s sure not _all_ of them are being illusive on the matter. “Do you remember when Flayn would dance for us, back in the war?” 

“Yeah.”

“I think she was having fun, doing that. As much fun as you can have on a battlefield.”

“Flayn’s kinda air-headed, though. She has fun doing all kinds of things that aren’t all that great, like cooking. Even when she’s bad at them.” 

  
“Like how she’s bad at cooking?” 

“Yeah.”

Despite his impending humiliation, Ashe can’t help but grin at Cyril’s characteristic bluntness.

“She’s doing better these days. Dedue’s advice is really helpful. It helped me a lot, too.”

“I dunno if Dedue has anything to do with this conversation.”

Ashe shrugs, and slips a hand in his pocket. 

“He doesn’t. Not really. But, uh, what I was trying to say is that cooking is good, and maybe dancing is too. But it’s bad for us, because we don’t know how to dance.”

“Nobody’s ever told me how to dance. I kept hiding in my room on the days our Professor was trying to get someone to sign up for the White Heron cup.” 

“Did you try and dance at the ball?” 

Cyril shakes his head, dismissive. 

  
“No. I fell asleep in my chair, actually.” 

  
“Really?” 

To Ashe’s surprise, Cyril’s cheeks flush at his gentle prying, and he pouts as he breaks eye contact. 

“Yeah. One of the other students woke me up for the food.”

“You haven’t tried dancing, then.”

“No. If I’d wasted time like that back in Goneril, I’d have been in real trouble. And now, I’m still super busy.”

“Would you try-”

“And,” Cyril interjects, “it’d be super embarrassing. Everyone knows how to do it. Except me.”

“I don’t. If we do it together, we’ll probably both end up making mistakes.” 

“And it’ll be a bad time.”

Ashe chuckles. “Not necessarily. It’s easier to do these kinds of things if you’re having fun with someone else.” 

“I don’t wanna drag you down like that.” 

“But we’re going to have to dance, right? It’s like you said. We don’t have much choice.” Considering the amount of times misfortune has snuck up on him, Ashe considers himself a firm believer in the power of expecting the hardships which befall him. In Cyril’s pondering expression, and the way he faces the far wall rather than turning back to face Ashe, he suspects he may have a kindred spirit in such ways of thinking. 

Little time passes before Cyril shrugs, an expression of resignation firm on his face. 

“A pact of mutual humiliation.” he mumbles, hand balled underneath his chin in contemplation. 

Ashe can’t bite back the guffawing laugh which builds in his throat at Cyril’s exasperation- he laughs, quite loudly, before he is able to shut himself up. His amusement doesn’t escape Cyril, who resumes eye contact with frustration in his gaze. Ashe finds himself blushing as Cyril stares him down, his face expressing the mocked belligerence of a cat awoken from its nap. 

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, the last traces of a laugh still hanging from his tongue, “I don’t mean to make fun of you. It makes me nervous, too.”

“Why’s it so funny, then?”

“Perhaps it’s because you’re right.” Ashe concedes. “Even if we dance together, I don’t think we’ll magically become good at it. But humiliation makes it sound like we’re going to sabotage each other on purpose.”

“I wouldn’t do that.” Cyril insists, with some urgency in his voice. “I know you wouldn’t, either.”

  
“Yeah! We’re friends. Remember our promise?”

Cyril hesitates for a moment before nodding, some slight confidence seeping back into his poise. 

“I do. And- alright. If you’re sure.”

“It’ll be better than dancing on my own. And, you might have some fun!”

Cyril averts his gaze from Ashe again, the faint blush on his cheeks resurfacing as he does. He mumbles something that Ashe can barely hear, not in the ruckus surrounding them, but which he guesses is some form of _maybe_. In response, Ashe’s hand slips over Cyril’s shoulder, cupping it securely and holding him in place amongst the whirl of sundry visitors, staff and tradespeople. 

It’s in that moment that Ashe almost forgets his anxiety, his confusion and his disorientation- and that Cyril is reminded of the two letters he’s still carrying, loose, within his day-bag. 


	9. competitive messenger shooting

He should have mailed them days ago. 

Instead, he’s letting the hours tick by as he meddles with completely unimportant matters of politique and appearance- all the while, his cargo no closer to reaching the mail-office. 

Standing in the midst of the crowd, Ashe having disappeared sometime around the early evening, Cyril knows that he could do it. With the mail office only a brief distance away, the walk would be nothing but a matter of five minutes each way. Shorter, if he was to hurry, and it’s hardly as if he’s used much in the way of his body’s energy earlier on. Nobody needs him around, and if he’s truthful with himself, nobody has needed him around since the morning. Everything he’s done is closer to interference than proactivity- but he can’t keep himself still. 

Not when each obligation he piles onto his plate lets him forget, if only for a little while, the way two telltale letters dance around each other in his almost-empty bag. 

He swears to himself in silence that he _was_ planning to send them. If Ashe hadn’t shown up when he had, and launched into a big conversation about _dancing_ and _Dedue_ and _their promise_ , it would have been his next move. Slipping away from the festivities and handing the letter to be processed by horseback courier- yes, he had been planning on it, no question about it. But Ashe had shown up, and messed up his plans by talking, and by being himself, all throwing Cyril so far off course that he’d simply stood, stunned, for the best part of the next hour. 

_Some advisor I am. Can’t mail a fucking letter._

He hadn’t left at all, not after that. He’d spent the entire time in Ashe’s vague proximity, and when Ashe himself had left, he’d waited, even if he hadn’t thought of it as _waiting_. All until what was functionally moments before the beginning of the ceremony, meaning that to leave and return would potentially bring him to the attention of a silent audience; looking to find who disturbed their celebration. Giving him no time to change out of his day-clothes- not that he had anything suitable for formal occasions, anyway- or to carry out the _one_ task he needed to do, and had been putting off because Ashe’s kindness had once again confounded him, had sent him spinning far from his intended orbit. 

Ashe was coming back, soon. Cyril knew that, and he clung to it like a lifeline. The event needed his presence, and he never dared to be late for anything he was required to attend. Even if he didn’t want to attend. 

_When he arrives, everything will be fine. We’ll dance together, just as we promised to each other. Then, we’ll give our speeches, because we have to. And it will be okay, even though you wrote this speech in an hour with a spare pencil on the back of someone else’s discarded invitation. Even though you’ve never danced before, and you don’t know where in the world you’d even start._

Cyril repeats the words to himself like a mantra; a prayer for good fortune and health chanted as the crowd around him settles down in anticipation of Ashe’s grand entrance. Only when the movement around him truly ceases does he duck away from the entrance and make his way closer to the back; and to the impromptu stage of discarded fruit-crates from which he’s supposed to speak. All the while, looking out for Ashe, trying to scope him out of the crowd. 

Five minutes; perhaps ten; pass before Ashe makes his entrance. From where he’s standing, Cyril can clearly see the broad doors of the entrance split in twine and allow Ashe his passage. He attributes it to his sight, as none of the people around the doorway save for the guards seem to react, allowing Ashe to sneak around the room with his back pressed to the walls. He breaks from his slinking only when he spots Cyril, leaning against the amalgamate of crates and debris, and greets his closest friend with a fond and sudden hug. 

“I’m so glad to see you. Have you been doing alright?”

The sudden physical contact stuns Cyril, at least for a moment, and he struggles to summon a response until Ashe lets him go. But he quickly finds that being released from the hug does little for his thoughts, either, as he scrambles to find some way of expressing his jumble of emotions that isn’t so _messy_ as to worry his companion. 

After a moment, he gives up, and just shrugs. 

“It’s okay if you’re not feeling great. It’s a big event, huh?” As he talks, Ashe casts a perfunctory gaze across the room, to where the hordes are seated on fine chairs ripped from rooms across the estate. Cyril follows him, and finds himself reaffirming his own fear of failure.

“Very big.” A twitchiness overtakes him, and he pulls gently on the thin tassels of his shirt to calm himself down. “You’re sure you want me up there?” 

“If it’s too much, then you don’t have to. And if anyone complains that you didn’t, I’ll tell them to take it up with me. But.”

“But?”

“It’s scary to be the focus of everyone’s attention. _I_ don’t even like it that much. But… I think, if they saw you, they’d know what I know, about how brilliant you are.” 

“...If you’re sure about that.”

“Of course I am.” 

Cyril is stunned, then, by the feeling of Ashe wrapping a hand around his, pressing their heads together as he does. But before he can lodge complaint, or sink further into the contact, he finds that Ashe has already disappeared up to the crates stacked high, his long-dormant dexterity making his climb up to the top nothing more than triviality. 

The gaze of the room begins to turn towards him- Cyril can spy them out of the corner of his eye. But for one beautiful moment, Ashe is gazing solely at him, and whispering a sweet _thank you, for everything_ underneath his trembling breath. 


	10. canary instinct

Whatever Ashe’s speech is about, Cyril doesn’t pay attention to it. He knows that he’s not expected to- and that if anything important is said, Ashe will let him know afterwards. Instead of filling his mind with words meant to placate a different audience, he focuses on creating some inner calm for himself, a place in his mind where his upcoming speech isn’t the only thing he can focus on. 

The sound of Ashe’s voice comforts him, as even and familiar as it is, and he finds his thoughts drifting sooner than he’d like them to. Even when Ashe is standing above him; he feels his presence like a pervasive and enduring warmth. One that he keeps chasing- even if it’s not good for him, or Ashe. And though it’s hard to pin down his exact emotions, regardless of how hard he tries to locate them within himself, he can’t deny his want. Not when the only thing that seems capable of taking his mind off of his upcoming duties is _him_ \- how proud he might be, how warmly he might take Cyril into his arms when the dancing begins, the way they’ll eat and rest together when the day has finally met its end. 

_Stupid_ , he thinks. _Getting in the way, like you always do_. 


	11. too bright

_You idiot_. 

Sometimes, Ashe wonders if he’ll ever be able to escape that feeling. The ever-present knowledge that in another world, in a world where things all went to plan, _he_ wouldn’t be where he is. The role would belong to someone else- Lonato, or Christophe- and he would be able to shrink into a hole of privacy like he wishes he could when he speaks to the many. He hates how it disorientates him; and how messy it is in its rough amalgamation of fear and desire. And how it seems to prey on his most important public appearances, when the water’s high, when he has to swim or drown. 

He tries, still. He has to, when Cyril is looking up at him like he does, as if he truly is meant to be in the place that he finds himself in. It’s people like Dimitri and Ingrid who have been most insistent on his excellence, his place; but it’s _Cyril_ who makes him want to earn it, to prove himself. 

So he keeps speaking. At some point, he almost loses track of the words he’s saying. Halfway through, he begins to lose track of their meanings, each word nothing more than a bridge to the next one he has to speak. Even his vision begins to blur, the faces of the audience becoming nothing more than a mass cast in the evening sunlight pouring through the estate’s grand window. But Cyril is always there, unceasing in his warmth and presence. 

When he finishes, almost out of breath, it’s Cyril’s applause he hears first. It’s the only applause he chooses to hear for any longer than a second. As long as the audience approves of him, that’s all that matters. He has no reason to bathe in their applause, or give it any more attention than he might otherwise. 

But _Cyril_ \- his expression is one of pride, of sincere investment, and Ashe isn’t sure what he’s ever done in his life to deserve it. 

“That was _great_.” Cyril murmurs underneath the din of the crowd as Ashe steps down from the crates, and back down to the floor beneath the two of them. “They love you, y’know that?” 

“Maybe.” Ashe offers in response, though only hesitantly. “I’m just happy to be down from there.” 

“Was it that bad?” 

Ashe flinches at the realization that he’s made Cyril more anxious, and quickly moves to adjust himself into a more relaxed position. 

“Not really. I just got bored of the sound of my own voice, you know?” 

“I don’t get tired of you. I dunno if I ever will.”

A brief silence hangs between them, as the post-speech din of the crowd begins to die down. 

“Uh. I know that feeling about myself, though.”

“Right.” Ashe stammers. “It’s… bad.”

Neither of them speak; not until the crowd has returned to anticipatory silence, waiting for the Lord’s key advisor to take the stage. At the sight of his awaiting audience, Cyril hesitates, and Ashe sees a shiver work through his body. Gently, he rubs his hand over Cyril’s shoulder, a soothing motion he’d learned as a child.

“You’re going to do great. I hope you know that, because I know that.”

When Cyril’s frame shifts from underneath him, Ashe knows he’s won. With the same grace as him, Cyril clambers to the apex of the stage, donning simple clothes and an expression of pride that Ashe can just _barely_ tell is a guard against his potential disgrace. 

He finds himself listening intently to Cyril’s speech, though it’s hardly as wonderful as listening to Cyril speak on any other day. With his bluntness toned down for the masses, it barely feels as if he’s written the thing, even though he knows that Cyril always takes care to write with formal inflection. Some longer words and proper nouns roll off of his tongue awkwardly, and Ashe can see Cyril flinch when it happens, gritting his teeth and tensing. But it’s a rousing talk, the sort that Ashe isn’t sure he’s capable of himself. Even the parts where his lack of industry knowledge become apparent remain compelling- something that Ashe doubts _he_ achieved- and his nervousness is almost impossible to detect. 

He reminds himself to thank Cyril a thousand times over, to never stop thanking him for his presence and his diligence. He’s sure that if decorum were not key, he’d embrace Cyril the moment he stepped down from that stage, dancing and festivity be damned. Who else better to celebrate, after all, than his best friend and dearest companion?

When Cyril does finish, he’s able to restrain himself, to his own slight disappointment. But the sweetness of Cyril’s gaze, even in its most exhausted form, means more than he can begin to express. Finding Cyril’s hand, he’s careful to hold it in place as he guides him down, even as Cyril grumbles toothless complaints about his tenderness. By the time Cyril is on the floor again, the din of the crowd has almost died down, but that doesn’t stop Ashe from whispering into Cyril’s ear as he readjusts to the comfort of being out of focus. 

“See? Everyone loved it.” 

It’s true- at least as far as Ashe can tell from the applause and cheers. He would never dare lie to Cyril, and as Cyril’s expression becomes quizzical, he hopes that Cyril knows that as well as he does. 

“They really did.”

An impulse rises inside of him, though he quashes it almost as fast as it emerges: to tell Cyril that he _loves him_ just as much as the audience does. He doesn’t allow himself to think any further on the idea, focusing instead on how stunned Cyril seems to even consider himself being appreciated like he is. He reasons with himself that he can’t put that on Cyril, not without advance warning. Not without really understanding what it means when he himself says that. 

“You’re sure?” 

“I’m really sure. I think they were more impressed with you than they were with me.”

Cyril snorts, amused, as if he was never as stressed as he was only minutes ago. 

“I doubt that. People like you a ton, you know?” 

“I hope so. But I want people to like you, as well.” 

One of Ashe’s hands slides over to Cyril’s shoulder, holding him in place once more. He rubs, again, but with more enthusiasm, and Cyril leans into the gentle affection as he does. 

“Are you still alright to dance with me?” 

“If we have to.”

“Then,” Ashe begins, “this is a good starting point. If you’re positioned like this, and I’m positioned like this-” he adjusts himself to the right, adopting a dancer’s stance- “then you’ll be in the right place to start moving when the musicians begin playing.” 

“A-alright.” Cyril stammers, shifting himself slightly to better distribute his weight. When a thin piece of leather is shuffled underneath Ashe’s fingers, it makes him stop, and peer downwards. 

  
“Is there anything important in that bag?” 

Cyril looks at him, in that moment, with the sort of gaze that Ashe knows he might think was concealing something. But he’s sure he knows Cyril too well for him to need to hide, and he brushes his expression of sudden panic off, attributing it to his sudden question and the anxiety inherent to the situation. 

“It’d be easier to dance if you took it off. You don’t have to, though.” 

Again, something inside Cyril makes him hesitate. It’s briefer than it was last time, though, and it ends with the leather bag slipped off of Cyril’s shoulder and onto the ground, flopping unceremoniously and weightlessly. Wordlessly, Cyril gestures to one of the serving staff, and bends to hand it over to them with an apologetic look. 

“If you take this to the mail office, and ask them to mail the letters inside, then you can count yourself excused for the rest of the night. I’m, uh, sorry. For the inconvenience.”

At the mention of being excused, their face lights up, and the bag is hoisted over their shoulder almost as soon as Cyril can pick it up off of the ground. They don’t hesitate in leaving, either, adjourning with the bag as soon as they can manage it. Looking at Cyril, Ashe can’t help but wonder about the strange expression on his face- of hesitation, perhaps, or wistfulness- but once more, he disregards it. His hand returns to Cyril’s shoulder instead, and he positions his feet to lead Cyril in the only dance he’s ever been half-decent at- a generic, simplistic waltz. 

“Will you forgive me if I mess this up?”

Cyril nods; all reluctance fading from his face as he does. 

“I’d forgive you for just about anything, Ashe. You’re my friend.”

_Yes_ , Ashe ponders. _Friends_.

He wonders if it’s strange to want more, to want something he can’t quite point to without flustering himself. 

He takes a step forward, and Cyril follows him. A step to the right, and he follows him again. Each motion, in time with the music playing behind them, brings their bodies closer together, shaves inches off of their distance as they move with whatever attempt at grace they can muster. Getting fully into the rhythm of the string-instrument band is a difficult task, but it’s easier than he expected. Not treading on Cyril’s feet as they wander to-and-fro amongst the other dancers proves the hardest part. Each split second worth of movement needs to be calculated perfectly, lest he trample the ground with unbecoming gracelessness. But he’s thankful that Cyril doesn’t seem to mind the imperfections in his step, nor the occasional hasty footfall pressing his feet to the ground. 

For the sake of his own self-esteem, Ashe doesn’t focus on any of the other dancing pairs. He hopes that they’re reciprocating that dignity, but he doubts they are. He and Cyril are the most visible people at the event, regardless of their lack of poise. But just like the dancing itself, the watchful eye of the crowd becomes easier to manage the more he moves, and the less he focuses on anything else but the synchronization of his body with Cyril’s. 

Cyril seems to move the same way Ashe does; at least as far as he can tell. It’s made apparent by their gentle nervousness how inexperienced they are, both of them taking care to provide no false lead nor injure the other in confusion. And yet, as he’s led onwards and across the dancefloor, he seems to make fewer and fewer mistakes. By the time Ashe has reached the other side of the floor with him, he’s struck with the feeling that he might suddenly be learning from Cyril, whose gaze is split between him and the other cavorting dancers. 

“You’re really good at this, Cyril.” With how close they are, not even the endless stream of music and chatter requires Ashe to raise his voice over a whisper. Even when the surrounding noise drowns out his words, Cyril listens, full of purpose as he gradually begins to take over from Ashe’s hesitant leadership. 

“Am I?” 

The question is unsurprisingly sincere, at least from someone currently usurping Ashe’s leadership in the midst of a dance. For as brash as his speech might be, Ashe has never known Cyril to have particularly good self-esteem. So he says nothing, knowing that Cyril will likely raise the bar to exclude whatever he is complimented on. 

He rubs against the tense shoulder-muscle of Cyril’s back instead, and allows him to be rid of some of the apprehension which has built inside his body. 

“If you say so.” Cyril mutters. Ashe can’t help but grin at the sight of his flustered smile- he’s rarely able to give his advisor the sincere compliments he deserves, and even if he’s not expressing the true depth of his feelings, he chooses to embrace the rare opportunity to see the corners of his lips turn upwards with satisfied joy. 

When Cyril takes the lead, Ashe finds himself going faster, footsteps on the hardwood floor below rapid but still synchronized with Cyril’s own movements. The sound of their dance echoes into the air, filling the celebration with even more noise and motion. But he’s careful to never be excessive, and Ashe sees his gaze dart up and down each time they move to ensure the absence of injury or error. He almost wants to question whether Cyril is overcompensating again- but it’s a line of inquiry that Cyril is almost always too stubborn to cooperate with. 

_Which is just like him_ , Ashe thinks. And for that reason, he wouldn’t trade it for a thousand thoughtless dancehall romps full of careless dancing. 

“You’re doing good, too.” Cyril mumbles, the two of them twirling around as he does. 

With the tips of their fingers connecting, a strange feat without much of a height gap to speak of, Ashe revolves around Cyril like the moon tracing its orbit. His spinning gives him a rare chance to observe the rest of the crowd, and he’s content to find that for the most part, their performance is up to par. But as soon as he reaches where he was again, the versatile stance which allowed him to gaze fondly at Cyril’s furrowed brow and observant eyes, he forgets the rest of the room as fast as he’d considered them in the first place. 

Cyril is right in front of him. Which is not to say that he hadn’t been before he’d spun Ashe around in front of a watching audience, on stage for everyone to see. But it hits him harder when he comes back to it; just how close they’ve been this whole time. Every time he closes his eyes, every other sense becomes so much more intense for him, and it’s not long before Ashe finds himself fixating on the way Cyril holds his wrists with trembling firmness and the way his mint-leaf freshened breath sends his eyebrows fluttering when it hits his face. He’s surrounded- but he has nothing to be scared of. 

It’s just the two of them, together, marching in time. 

And Ashe isn’t sure when they start kissing; or who initiates it (he guesses it might be him, because it takes a second for Cyril to lean into it as enthusiastically as he does). But he knows that when it happens, it’s natural, and _right_ , in the same way a bird one day just _knows_ how to flap its wings and take flight. When their lips meet, and when Ashe tugs him forward into an all-encompassing hug, it’s simply the logical progression of the world as it moves forwards. He doesn’t just _want_ it, he _understands_ it, more than he’s ever understood anything else. 

But it’s when he tries to deepen the kiss, when he opens his mouth and tries to work his way into Cyril’s own as it opens with a gasp, that reality strikes him. Not in the form of his audience, or his fellow dancers, but in the form of Cyril- who leaned so eagerly into his attentions only a minute beforehand. He’s pushed away from his companion halfway into the kiss, and left with his tongue hanging out as he takes slow steps backwards. 

There are few times in his life, Ashe thinks, where he’s felt so terrible as he does as Cyril’s face turns so suddenly fearful and rigid. His gaze remains fixed on Ashe, lips wet with the slick of his eager embrace. But the purposeful joy is drained from him, its sudden absence jarring. And though Ashe desperately scrambles to apologize, to cry out, as Cyril continues to back off across the dancefloor, no words come to his lips before he’s gone. 

The dancing doesn’t cease; nor does the music. But the only thing Ashe hears is the fading sound of Cyril’s footsteps pounding against the floor as he darts from the hall, bringing the world’s movements to a stop. 


	12. blue hour

He has to _go_.

He has to keep telling himself that. That whatever foolish, deluded impulse Ashe had acted on back in the hall, now barely a speck on the horizon as Cyril runs, was just that, and nothing else. 

_A bad decision, a surrender to temptation, perhaps a joke_. 

Because if Ashe _meant_ it- in the way some selfish part of him wants- then Cyril isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to forgive himself for it.

He runs as fast as he can for as far as he can go before he’s on the verge of collapsing; finds himself on the grassy verge of some unused field from where the estate can only be seen by looking upwards. He’s sure he’s seen this place before from the bridge, and the knowledge that Ashe might try to pursue him using that knowledge stirs the desperation inside him further and more violently. But his legs are no longer obeying him when he tries to walk; and giving out on him when he stands. So with reluctance, Cyril allows himself to sink into the green clouds of grass and wildflowers, and buries himself in their tall strands til he feels consumed by their entangled stems and stalks. 

He tries, as hard as he can make himself try, to forget about Ashe. Specifically, to forget about the taste of his lips, the gentle resignation of his kind eyes as he leaned in without warning to kiss him and the satisfaction of being able to kiss him back. He can’t deny that those things were good- that, he doesn’t even attempt. But as he plucks the tallest fronds of greenery that aren’t squashed underneath him from the earth, he tries his best to not think. To simply abandon his thoughts; leaving them elsewhere until his body is no longer threatening to pull the rug out from under him. 

It’s hard. He expects that, at least. Nothing he’s invested so much time in can be brushed off like a bad dream; not when it stands prescient over him even now. But, somehow, it’s harder than he can conceive of it being. Every time he summons a thought of something else; of baby’s breath or puppies or what the weather might be like tomorrow, Ashe interferes. It’s not that he’s structured his life around Ashe- they do plenty of stuff apart, and if he was gone, he’d know where to go and what to do. But he’s not gone- he’s gotten closer than ever. And in the midst of his fear, Cyril had pushed him away. 

_Because it was a mistake_ , Cyril reminds himself. _You’ve tricked him into wanting you- or, you’re misinterpreting this entirely. Either way, you’re being stupid_.

A sinking part of him knows he won’t be able to stay away for long. It’s warm enough for him to survive outside, and he has some money in his pockets. If necessary, he can drink from running freshwater, and hitchhike further afield. But everything that’s worth anything to him is in the estate, and if he wants it back, he’ll have to go and pick it up. If he leaves after that, it still won’t be the clean break he needs to feel rid of Ashe; every road he walks and every room he steps foot in will remind him of what they’ve spent together. 

Ashe might try to convince him to stay. It’s a nauseating prospect; try as he might, Cyril can’t imagine himself saying no to that. Which is the problem with him in the first place. When he dances with Ashe, when he procrastinates for days on end on mailing the two least challenging candidates with a marriage proposal, when Ashe kisses him- he’s sure that something is being wasted. Perhaps he’s okay with the idea of being by Ashe’s side forever- perhaps Ashe hasn’t thought it through, and thinks it might be fine himself. But Cyril knows that the world is unkind- and that Ashe’s future lies amongst the people he’s fought his entire life to live beside. 

And not him. 

A sense of tiredness begins to overtake him, as if spreading from his aching legs to his chest and his mind. He knows that he’d planned to go further- ideally as far as he could go before the sun vanishes from the sky, concealing him in the cover of night. Yet shifting his body seems a mammoth task; though he’s sure he’s become no heavier, nor had any magic spells to that effect cast on him. His breathing is even, and he’s sure he’s fully conscious, and not seeing anything strange. Yet the ache pervades, burying into each part of him. 

Still, as far-removed as his own body as he’s become, it takes a few minutes for Cyril to register that he’s exhausted. Not dying; neither from a wizard’s spell or a broken heart. But after such a long day, he can’t help but melt into his meadow-bed, as knobbly and uncomfortable as it is. 

_It’s easier to not think about Ashe if I’m not thinking of anything_ , he rationalizes. It’s silent, and only to himself, but it’s a sentiment that manages to convince him nonetheless. 

He tries his best to lay his head somewhere comfortable, finding eventually a patch of particularly soft earth with plants shielding his hair from the dirt which sloughs off as he shifts. It doesn’t take him long to drift away, regardless of the troubles of his mind. 

His sleep is dreamless, the time he spends awake already much too full of uncertainty and impossibility. 


	13. a waking in sleep

Cyril wakes up where he fell asleep.

His makeshift bed is as he remembers it, and has become no more comfortable during the night. When he nearly rolls over with the force of the fright induced by waking up somewhere initially unfamiliar, he manages to confirm that his wallet remains with him, too, getting crushed underneath his weight and the flailing of his limbs before he manages to regain his breath, and remember where he is.

The sun has risen over the horizon in the distance, and judging from its progression across the sky, Cyril doubts it’s any later than eight in the morning.

Too long, he berates himself. You fell asleep during sunset, and you’ve slept for this long.

He yawns, graceless, and tries to shuffle out of his sleeping position and onto his haunches in order to survey the landscape which surrounds him still. It takes him a moment, his body still in a state of post-sleep disobedience. But he manages it, eventually- all to find that nothing has changed, or been disturbed, during the course of his night.

He supposes that it’s only logical. If anything were to roam around a place like this, it would not be difficult for it to spot him, sleeping out in the open without making a single attempt to conceal himself amongst the pastoral wilderness. If it had any interest in him, it would have disturbed him then, underneath the cover of darkness.

The selfish part of him wants Ashe to be waiting for him, somehow escaping his field of vision. But he’s desperate to leave that part of himself unindulged, lest it grow hungrier. It takes a concerted effort, but he’s eventually able to push his grey-haired companion from his mind, and replace him with the beginnings of a plan as to where he’ll head next.

The estate is not far away. He hasn’t roamed far enough for it to even leave his vision, though the matter is helped by the fact it’s on a hillside, that there’s very little else around, and the general excellency of his vision. A walk back would take him perhaps half an hour; twenty minutes, if he hurried.

But it’s not an option. Because his body wants his food, and his bed, and his comfortable night-clothes. And if he gives it those as soon as he can, then he’s sure that he won’t be able to resist leaving. He’ll just stick around, and let himself keep running Ashe’s legacy into the ground.

Somewhere else. He has to go somewhere else. He’ll go back to the estate when he needs his things, and for nothing else. But in terms of filling his stomach- which seems to become emptier by the second- it’s a trek to the next town over, or eating whatever he can find in the woods.

He’s eaten from the wilderness before, in and out of survival training. It’s not something Cyril’s ashamed of. But he’s unsure of how to go about it in the forests of Southern Faerghus, with his experience mostly stemming from Central Fodlan and West Almyra. And if he eats something poisonous by accident, there’s a good chance that nobody will find him. The coin in his pocket is sufficient to pay for a meal, and though he aches at the prospect of returning to the estate before he absolutely has to, Cyril reckons that dying painfully amongst the dense boreal undergrowth is a fate worse than foreshortening the amount of time before he has to face the end of his life with Ashe.

If only barely.

With no more business out in the empty field which sprawls around him, he gets to his feet and begins to walk. The ground is littered with mole-hills and rabbit burrows, so many that looking down as he walks manages to take up much of his headspace as he plods onwards. It’s warm, but it’s bearable, and aside from the dirt that’s somehow seeped into every corner and fold of his clothes, he could almost mistake his journey for a casual hike across the emptied grazing-lands left abandoned to promote crop health during the next year’s harvest. For a while, it’s a fantasy he lets overtake him, if only for the distraction it provides.

When he remembers that he’s done this with Ashe by his side, he wipes all of his thoughts on the matter clear from his mind.

He focuses, instead, on the road in front of him. He’s not walking the dirt road, as it only makes him easier to spot. Though he’s not sure if he’s being looked for in the first place- it’s not unlikely, at least- it feels more like pressing balm to a wound than any legitimate strategy to remain unseen. He likes feeling unnoticed, and considers himself to have had more than his fill of the public’s eye over the last day. And, as loathe as he is to admit it, whatever’s left of the scared and wandering child he was likes to remain concealed when travelling by the roadside.

Not that it had protected him back then, of course. But it felt nice, to believe that second time lucky wasn’t a platitude for the let-down and the beaten.

It’s a while before he spots the town he’s journeying to. He’s familiar with it from multiple visits, which makes it the safest place to go as someone distinctly un-Faerghian. Despite his propensity to lurk, he’s followed Ashe to his fair share of town halls and pronouncements, and he knows that a reasonable amount of people might recognize his face. As counterintuitive as he knows it is to his previously defensive behaviour, it’s the best thing he can do for himself to stay where people know him before he travels on.

The town’s edge offers little in the way of assistance; so it takes a further while of walking for Cyril to find himself anywhere of note or use. It’s at the centre- an old place, cast in white stone and grey brick- that he finds the inn which has hosted excursions from the noble house of Gaspard before. A brief moment of hesitation overtakes him before he steps through the sturdy wooden doors which bar the sun and snow from the establishment, though the hunger in his stomach and the ache in his legs quickly turns him against his desire to do… something else.

How far I’ve fallen, Cyril thinks as a rumble surfaces from the bottom of his chest, from the knight of forced marches and meagre rations that I was.

He enters with none of the fanfare he’s received in the past, though only as a part of Ashe’s entourage. It’s not something he minds, however. Not when the woman staffing the combination bar-desk at the entrance seems to be shooting him a friendly glance, at least. Cyril isn’t sure whether she recognizes him, but since he’s been noticed, he doesn’t hesitate in grabbing his wallet from his pocket and approaching the check-in book.

“Room for one.” he mumbles, sorting through his various coins absentmindedly before sliding a heap onto the counter. From the financial records of the Estate, he’s fairly sure he can remember the cost of a night in the inn, and he aims for that. “Uh, please.”

There’s no response on the staffer’s part, but Cyril trusts she’s ducking underneath the counter for some purpose. It’s a trust that’s rewarded as she pulls out a wrought-iron key with a short length of flax rope tied around its hollow part.

“Upstairs.” she mumbles, nodding her head towards the stairs on the right of both of them. “Second room on the left.”

The key slides over the top of the desk and towards Cyril, who catches it just before it falls onto the floorboards below. With a curt nod of acknowledgement, he shoves the key in his pocket, and returns his wallet there to sit alongside it.

He does not, however, go to his room. Nor does he order a drink from the bar taps behind the counter, as tempting as he finds the idea. He heads out of the entrance, instead, and finds himself once more in the town square. The sunlight hitting his eyes again disorients him, but as he scans the buildings in front of him, he finds what he’s looking for- the eatery which had opened its doors to him during his last trip to town.

He’s quick to head there, ducking out of sight whenever it’s possible and keeping in the shade for as long as he can. With the weather as warm as it is, the wood-veined windows of the building are open, and Cyril smells the thick musk of roasting meat the moment he takes a tentative sniff of the air. It’s a scent that compels him further, and he finds himself in the establishment before he considers the matter any further himself.

Despite the scent, it’s half-vacant- again, Cyril can’t find it in himself to mind that. He takes a seat close to the doors to the kitchens, if for no other purpose than his hope of being served quickly enough to take his leave before anyone bothers him.

When a waiter passes him by; however, he finds himself clamming up. With his stammering obscuring his order- unclear in itself, just whatever smells nice- it’s clear to him that he’s losing patience fast. Something of his confident authority from before drains from him, and he gives up halfway through.

“I’m hungry.” he mumbles, ashamed of how much the words make him sound like a whining child. “Just bring me whatever. ‘n some light beer.”

He’s not sure if the waiter catches the last bit of his order; by the time he’s spoken it, the man has half-vanished into the kitchens without taking any note of his request. But with embarrassment still hot at the back of his throat, he doesn’t complain.

He sits, instead, and finds himself thinking again.

He should be eating with Ashe. Cyril feels himself beginning to doubt whether visiting a restaurant he’s been to before with Ashe is a particularly good idea if he needs to forget about him. He can’t leave, because he’s too recognizable to get away with leaving a tab unpaid. But he wants to, and he finds himself nervously fiddling with the folds and corners of his day-clothes as a way of comforting himself.

Still, his discomfort isn’t eased by the time the food arrives, a heap of surprisingly unappealing things underneath a generous pouring of liquid laid to rest on a plain ceramic plate. There’s no beer beside it, nor does it smell particularly appetizing, and Cyril hands over a clutch of coins with his teeth gritted and his eyes averted from the server who he decides likely has little to do with the mess at hand.

Without much of an appetite- regardless of his hunger- Cyril finds himself once again lost in his thoughts as soon as the server departs. As much as he doesn’t want to imagine anything about him, he finds himself envisioning Ashe on the other side of his table. It’s tempting for him to blame what he sees on a vision summoned by his hunger, but he doesn’t feel particularly like lying to himself when he’ll never manage to convince himself. That he’s over Ashe, or that everything is fine, or that he wants to eat whatever the mess in front of him is supposed to be.

Mouthfuls of the food placed in front of him do little to help. Cyril finds himself raising his eyebrows at the dish each time he looks at it, and nearly retching each time he forces himself to swallow a forkful of whatever he’s ordered. He supposes his confusion could stem from a gap in his knowledge of Fodlan food, or from the owners using his indecision to cheat him with the re-cooked remains of unfinished dishes, covered in some unpalatable red sauce. Neither potential changes the dish, however, and after a few minutes of fretting on the matter, Cyril forces himself to push the thoughts to one side. Much as he does the dish, nudging the pale ceramic close to the other side of the table til he can no longer smell it so acutely.

There is a family beside him. And as much as Cyril tells himself that he has no interest in their presence, in the absence of any other distraction from the disquieting flurry of thought in his mind, he can hardly stop his vision from drifting to them.

A couple, with two kids between them, Cyril observes, recalculating only when his looking towards the floor (at a darting rat, being chased by one of the serving staff) reveals the wife’s hands cradling a swollen, rounded stomach. As she rubs it gently, young children darting back and forth between the chairs without a care for quietness or decorum, he finds himself lost, if only briefly, in the knowledge that he was once only what he sees before him- a child, tucked inside of his mother.

A mother he can’t remember. A mother he spent much of his youth trying to replace with anyone who might have him. It’s hardly as if he can resent her for dying. But in the heat of his sudden jealousy, he very nearly does.

It almost surprises him, then, when something makes him feel worse. For taking his eyes off of the woman only brings his gaze to the father of the family, equally ignorant of his presence. Instead, looking down at the woman he has undoubtedly married with nought but contentment on his face, a pride that nearly gleams at the sight of her heaviness, her contented grin. His grim envy at the sight is not one which Cyril welcomes, but it sinks within him nonetheless. It only worsens when he reimagines the sight- when the man becomes Ashe, grey-haired and handsome, and the woman becomes some nondescript noble. Smiling not because she knows Ashe, or because she cares for him, but because she’s secured the inheritance of Gaspard. All of Ashe’s hard work coveted, treasured, yet not understood.

And Ashe is happy. As he should be, and without him.

He does not muse for long on his decision to leave. His meal already- regrettably- paid for in its entirety, he finds no reason to remain, save for further tormenting himself. Attempting not to stir his neighbours, thankfully still unalerted to his inexplicable gawking, he stands and makes his exit as swiftly as he can manage, keeping the creaking chair still for as long as he can.

-

An hour of restless ambling around the town passes before Cyril gives up.

He gives up, specifically, on the prospect of finding anything that might cheer him up, or enthuse him enough to strike out away from the estate for any longer than he has to. He gives up on not seeing Ashe’s face on every person that passes him, occasionally waving in acknowledgement of his importance in the territory. He surrenders, instead, to the fact that there’s nowhere for him to go but home. He can only run away once he has his things, has maybe made whatever small amends he can muster for disappearing without any warning.

He has to. And once he’s there, he has to leave. Or he’ll do something unforgivably stupid.

As he walks away from the town, cobblestone streets turn gradually into well-trodden dirt paths. He struggles to retrace his steps exactly, as hungry and dehydrated as he was when he’d woken in the morning. But he has a vague idea of the area, mostly from his past travels, and he wastes little time in following one of the navigation tips Shamir had once imparted to him- to follow a familiar river is the simplest way to navigate. When he catches scent of pooling water, followed by the sound of it spilling over time-smoothed stone, he follows his senses to a small creek. Wider than most, he knows it still deviates from some source. With any luck, that source will be the river which carves the moat surrounding Gaspard Estate.

Cyril follows it, near-mindless, into the forest. Fishing a small pocket-knife from the bag which still hangs from his shoulder, he takes care to make a gentle nick in each trunk he passes, in the hope of reorienting himself should he become even further diverted from his path. Still, he doesn’t stray from the flow of water.

Watching it, he feels almost numb. It doesn’t help how emotionally drained he already feels, exhausted from everything that’s happened. Though he knows none of the issues which have troubled him have been solved, his body can no longer will itself to take concern with them. Cyril surrenders a part of him to the journey, to the river and to the rhythmic tearing of tree-flesh that he feels each time his blade marks another step.

Still, the heat of midday begins to bear down on him quicker than he’d like it to. Though shaded from the worst by the leaf-dense boughs above him, he cannot deny for very long the burden of summer on his shoulders. Nor can he continue to focus once his skin becomes damp with sweat, the effort of walking only accentuated by the gradual climb to the higher land much of House Gaspard’s core territory is located on. As much as he knows he’s getting closer, he can’t entirely stomach the idea of showing up sweat-drenched and panting- certainly not after his unceremonious departure.

With that in mind, Cyril takes care to find a particularly dense patch of grass on the riverbank, lowering himself down to sit gently upon it. Carefully, he drops his bag, though he can’t deny how uncomfortable the idea of leaving it unguarded makes him feel- not that there’s anything valuable in there save for sentiment. Following it are his clothes, boots before trousers before shirt and chest-drapings, until nothing remains on his body save for his brief underwear. With only a cursory glance, he picks out a sun-warmed spot of the river, mostly free from debris (at least on first inspection), to sink into.

Despite the sun, the water is cold, and as the preliminary shiver runs through his body, Cyril can’t help but wonder what exactly he expected from running river water. Still, he lets it sweep past his legs, wicking the sweat dripping down him away into its course. After a few minutes, he lowers himself down, so that all of him save for his face is resting amidst the cooling comfort of the flow.

His discomfort erased, he thinks again about Ashe. About the way that Ashe had kissed him, out of nowhere, but with such remarkable resolve and strength that Cyril swears that running his tongue over his lips still reveals some part of his taste. It was the sort of kiss he’d read about in books, that brave knights gave to maidens and a returning lord gave to his dearest wife. Sincere; honest; a gesture of both passion and love.

It could have been a joke, Cyril reminds himself. But there’s nothing he can think of that makes Ashe’s decision to kiss him in front of a huge crowd at the most front-facing event of the season a sensible one. For even if it were a joke, none of the guests would have known that, and there was no doubt some had seen it happen with clarity of presence and mind. And though he tries, Cyril cannot imagine some reason why Ashe would risk such a thing tarnishing his future prospects.

He pays bitter acknowledgement, too, to the part of him that doesn’t want it to be a joke. Even though that’s the only way that means he has nothing to chastise himself for, his selfish desire to be wanted surfaces again and again inside him like a weed. Sometimes, before he can stop himself, he ends up dreaming of the way Ashe felt, even wanting his kiss again.

Because everything Ashe was is everything Cyril wants Ashe to be. To want is in itself a strange emotion for Cyril, unaccustomed to the desire to be wooed or given a lover’s affection. He’s never had to fight for Ashe’s attention, or think of their comfortable comradery as anything but a feature of his everyday life. Which he knows would have to change if Ashe takes a wife- undoubtedly the most sensible path for him to follow, high-standing individual that he is.

And if Ashe wants him- Cyril cannot help but fixate on the waste of time and resources it would be for them to indulge in such things. With both of their life’s worth of investments poured into the estate, even their casual joining could bring Gaspard no resources or diplomatic clout. Nor could they engender children to inherit the territory when they both passed; and even if some strange magic allowed it such offspring would be inevitably crestless. At no point in their friendship had Ashe professed to care much about these things, but Cyril had seen firsthand his devotion to the land which was under his care.

He tells himself that it’s for the best; that if he’s an obstacle to the good fortune of so many, departing is the only kind choice for him to make.

By the time he comes to anything close to a conclusion, Cyril finds that the refreshing stream of water is no longer pleasurably chilly. Rather, it is bitingly cold, sending chills running through his extremities and threatening to seep into his skin. Without stopping to address his modesty, he climbs from the stream onto the banks, and finds himself lying adjacent to the pile of clothes he’d constructed earlier. In no rush, he allows himself to sun briefly before redressing himself,

When he finally gets to his feet, he’s not sure if he feels better. He’s certainly less sweaty, and clean enough that he’ll likely make it to Gaspard without needing to clean himself once more. But his rest had given him the furthest thing from solace. Rather, it had forced upon him uncomfortable truths and great dilemmas, ones which stirred the uneasiness inside him. But none of them had given him reason to turn around; his business in Gaspard remains unfinished, Cyril reminds himself. His reluctance, and his fear, must simply be discounted.

When he’s no longer exposed, Cyril continues his journey. The predictable path of the river comforts him, and he quickly finds what he had assumed about its course to be true. Its northernmost point, Cyril observes, is a bend in the stream prior to the downwards-flowing water curving from the West. More importantly, it concludes at the foot of a slight incline, the first indication of the defensive terrain Gaspard Castle was initially founded on. Considering the weather, Cyril can’t say he’s enthused by the prospect of walking so far uphill, but neither does he feel much like complaining about the issue. Instead, he’s careful to head eastwards towards the crossroads sitting at the bottom of the higher terrain before he follows the path onwards and towards the estate.

His even footsteps grant him some rhythm, some peace, a temporary quiet of the mind. He tries his hardest to think only of the dry earth below and the sky which hangs overhead, blue and clean of clouds in any colour. But he dallies, still, and sometimes, with a vision of Ashe hanging heavy in his mind.


	14. the warmth of your doorways

Every sensible part of Ashe _knows_ that he’s fucked everything up. 

He ruined the vine festival, for one. After everything that happened, he hadn’t been able to stand the sight of the place anymore, and had departed with great haste, all without staying for further words with any of the important figures attending. Without his presence, many of them had departed, as per the story passed down from the assistants of his who’d been left to clean up the remnants of the celebration. None of them had seemed particularly happy about it- particularly not those who were looking to butter him up for more favourable policies or trade deals in their areas of expertise, and who would have to wait for the next social event to do so. None of his staff had said outright that it had been a social calamity, but Ashe had been unconvinced of that from the start. He was perfectly capable of reading between the lines, and picking up on the reticence clear on the faces of his closest associates; he did not doubt that the abrupt emptying of the event was intimately connected to his sudden and unexcused departure from the hall. 

What matters more- a thousand times more, if Ashe has any say in the matter- is Cyril. Who vanished from the estate after his _stupid, profoundly stupid_ attempt at kissing him in public and professing his love. He’d intended to confess after the kiss, but he’d found himself frozen in place when Cyril returned his affection.

From there, everything had deteriorated. Though he _swears_ Cyril kissed him back, almost more passionately than his own initiating kiss, he knows that nothing about that changes the fact that Cyril is gone. He doesn’t know where he’s gone, or whether he’s coming back. He’d like to say he doesn’t know _why_ he’s gone, but he does. He’d wanted something he couldn’t have, and it had pushed his dearest friend away. 

But though it feels like it might do, Ashe knows his grief hasn’t stopped the sun from rising. Cyril’s absence means even more of the estate’s business is under his purview- which is why he finds himself amongst a crowd of trainee couriers, none of whom look anything older than sixteen, in the mid-afternoon when he would otherwise be dealing with policy proposals and any letters sent in from the King. 

He tries his best to enjoy it. He’s not _used_ to working with younger folks, but it’s not something he minds, and they’re all thankfully without knowledge of what transpired the night before. Despite the dejection that even he knows is entering his voice each time he speaks, his crowd picks up on every word he speaks and seems to take each one to heart. None of which makes his performance anything less than a disappointment, but he supposes it’s better than his original plan for the day, which was to curl up beneath his covers and pretend the entire thing was a dream until either Cyril returned or he passed away of a broken heart. He had almost gone through with that, too, but none of the other castle staff had seen it fit to let him while away his day in self-pity and angst. 

It’s over before he realizes it, with one of the children gently informing him that they were expected to take a carriage back to the town after he finishes droning on about something he can barely remember once he stops speaking of it. His schedule, as one of the junior advisors informs him, is functionally empty for the rest of the day. But he’s well acquainted with the purpose of an “empty” schedule, which is to provide time for things which are best described as “unschedulable dronework”. 

With a heart no less heavy than earlier, he makes his way to his office through stone corridors accentuated with stained-glass and some spare, conservative portraits on the walls, the heavy doors creaking open as he settles into his own worn wooden seat behind the main desk. It is, unfortunately, amongst the places that remind him of Cyril’s presence, and Ashe struggles to escape the uneasiness inherent to settling into his usual place without Cyril’s companionship (“intrusion”, as he might call it himself) on a regular basis. But it has been made clear to him- he has no time to grieve. Not until his work for the day is done. 

He finds himself pondering through a pile of papers stacked on his desk, ticking them where appropriate and otherwise piling them haphazardly to the side. Despite the monotony, he doesn’t find himself absorbed in the act of decreasing the stack of documents. 

Rather, he thinks more about Cyril. At this point in his day, he would no doubt have seen Cyril several times, both for meals and for administrative duties and purposes. His absence is already managing to leave a gaping hole in his day, though it’s barely halfway through. Even on the days Cyril was ill, he would insist upon visiting his room to keep him company throughout the day, and vice versa. And it’s without him around that Ashe ends up focusing more on him, the barest essence of his presence, the way he would offer his kind touch and familiarity to Ashe whenever he found himself troubled or even alone.

He supposes that it is quite easy to understand why he found himself falling for Cyril- which is almost certainly what had begun happening long before their fateful kiss. Perhaps his emotions had only solidified when he’d found himself the last member of the Blue Lions to be spoken for in terms of relationships, but each tender thought of Cyril made him doubt even further that his _wanting_ had somehow sprung fully formed from the earth beneath upon receival of a single letter. There had never been any shortage of sweet affection between him and Cyril, even on the most formal days. Moreover, while he might be more inclined to socializing and public pursuits, Ashe finds himself straining his own imagination to think of someone Cyril has ever been quite so vulnerable with. Perhaps Lysithea- but Cyril had long ago explained their commitment to platonic friendship above the romantic relationship some might assume between them. 

Still. He was foolish to assume that these things meant anything, or that they permitted him to pursue Cyril in the way he did. Even if he had reciprocated in the moment (quite eagerly, but Ashe did not allow himself to think any more on that), he did not necessarily want to make the same commitment Ashe wanted to make. He might be cursed to feel this way about his best friend, but this was not necessarily the case for Cyril. 

Ashe finds himself sighing, and slipping his quill down onto ink-blotting paper before he’s entirely finished with the documents he has to file. His thoughts keep wandering, and there’s little else he can do aside from wallowing in them endlessly. 

Solemn, he decides something. He loves Cyril- and he loves him enough to let him go.

-

Ashe wakes up to a hand on his shoulder.

His senses come to him slowly, eyes wrenched shut at first as he slowly acclimates to the awakening touch. After a moment, he can sense that someone is speaking- but he’s not sure who, not at first. Nor is he sure what’s being said, or whether it’s to him. For a while, it’s almost dreamlike, even as he manages to move his fingers up and down against the hardwood frame of his desk. 

_I fell asleep at my desk… I don’t know if I’ve done that for years, come to think of it_. 

And I’m sleepy, still… Someone’s trying to wake me up, though.

After a minute, during which the touch continues but barely shifts, Ashe lets out a pronounced yawn and a long sigh, eyelashes fluttering as his eyelids open gently to the world around him. The glittering of the sunlight reassures him that he hasn’t slept until sundown. But there’s no other indication of how long he’s been out, and in his dreamlike state, he feels a rush of fear boil in his stomach at the idea he’s neglected one of Cyril’s important duties. 

That fear, however, becomes the last thing in his mind as he looks up, and finds a familiar figure in front of him. 

At the sight of black hair and cherry-wood eyes, it doesn’t take long for Ashe to convince himself again that he’s dreaming. He reasons to himself that whatever transcendent state he had entered during his dream has simply carried over, rather than ceased. Whatever he is experiencing is some strange dream; the subconscious equivalent of a cruel joke meant to mock his failures. Unwilling to subject himself to the inevitable sensation of loss once again, he closes his eyes, and attempts to sleep so that he might wake up from his taunting imagination. 

His attempts come nowhere close to working, not even in putting him to sleep again. For the touch on his shoulder quickly intensifies into a full-on jab between his neck and his collarbone, a sharp touch he can imagine someone administering during a particularly facetious argument. Nevertheless, he finds it disturbing his attempts to rest rather profoundly, and in the hopes of shifting in his bed to dissuade the sensation, he goes to open his eyes and turn his body. 

“Ashe?”

“Go away.” Ashe mumbles, groggily. “I know you’re not real. I just made you up.”

“What? I’m pretty real. And I need to talk to you.”

Ashe grunts slightly, tucking his head back into the cradle of his arms. Him doing so prompts Cyril to deliver another quick poke to his companion’s face, evenly between his eyebrows. 

“I get that you don’t want to see me right now. I just need my stuff, alright? Then I’ll stop bugging ya.”

“I’m dreaming about you, Cyril. Again.” 

Ashe feels the jab to his forehead getting harsher and more insistent.

“Y-you’re not Dimitri, Ashe. Can I please get my junk back?” 

Ashe’s own arm draws away from the cradle it once formed, and rises to meet where Cyril’s arm hovers. He grips Cyril’s wrist insistently, with more strength than he intends. 

Underneath his touch, something thin pulses and thrums, like the plucked strings of a lyre. It’s a warm beat, so distinctly alive, and Ashe finds himself hissing at the sensation of it. 

“You feel so real.” he murmurs, dreamlike. “I’m not doing a good job of forgetting you. Is that what you want?”

“I-I’m real.” Cyril stammers. “Do you think you’re dreaming?”

“I’m dreaming.” Ashe insists. 

“You’re not. Why d’you think you are?”

Ashe giggles, a darkly mirthful lilt to his laugh.

“I want you back. Even after all the stuff I did.”

“I-I know.” 

Cyril’s singular, focused touch ceases, replaced with a palmful of fingers splayed gently across Ashe’s head. Gently, he sweeps his fingertips across his brow, with the predictable rhythm of a sea’s waves crashing upon the rocks of its bay. 

“But I can’t keep getting in your way.”

Ashe gasps, brief, at the gentle touch. His eyes remain shut, but his eyelashes flutter slightly as he fights the instinct to open them wide again. 

“I could say the same thing.” 

His grip relaxes, but Cyril’s arm doesn’t shift with its freedom. Instead, it sweeps further downwards, a single finger tracing the bridge of Ashe’s nose as the others fall behind.

_Hm_ , Cyril mumbles. “Could I do somethin’ to show you that you’re not dreaming?”

Ashe’s arm returns to where it was, and cradles his face again. 

“I know that in stories, you can wake someone up by hitting them.” 

“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m going to hit ya, Ashe.” 

Despite his general grimness, the corners of Ashe’s lips turn upwards at Cyril’s dogged refusal.

“That _is_ what the real Cyril would say.”

“Which is why I’m saying it.” 

Cyril pauses for a moment, and hums for a second, before speaking again.

“You can’t taste in a dream, right?” 

“I don’t think so.” replies Ashe. “I’ve never tasted anything in a dream.”

“So if I stick something in your mouth, you won’t taste it. But if you do taste it, then it’s not a dream, and we can both go.”

“...Okay.”

Ashe feels the weight ff the desk underneath him shift slightly, as if something is being laid upon it. A sound too soft for him to identify hits his ears, and the weight shifts once more.

“O-open your mouth.”

Hearing such words from Cyril’s mouth sends him spinning. He berates himself for dreaming up something so lascivious- only to be interrupted by the feeling of a single finger entering his mouth, followed by another prying his jaw apart. 

When the soft fingertips hit his tongue, though only briefly, he finds himself _tasting_. A similar taste to that of Cyril’s lips, though with undertones of river-water and wild grasses, he feels much like a wild animal as it runs wild across his senses. 

But it’s not solely the recognition of the taste. It’s the fact he can sense it at all. He’s supposed to be in a dream, but everything is much too intense to be the manufacture of his unconscious mind. He’s never felt like this before in the respite of sleep, the flavours of salt and skin and sweat crowding his mind as Cyril holds him open. 

With his mouth pried open, it’s hard for Ashe to say much of anything. But when a sharp gasp escapes the back of his throat, Cyril’s grip instinctively relaxes, fingers going slack and retreating from wherever they’re too close to his teeth. Briefly, Ashe wonders if it’s a move he’s learned from handling wyverns- both opening his jaw and preparing a quick contingency plan, lest he lose fingers (or worse). 

His eyes open wide. Not much has changed, save for Cyril’s proximity and his positioning. 

“You’re real. Are you real?”

Cyril sulks, and his frown deepens.

“I’ve already told you that. You can taste it, right?”

With difficulty, Ashe nods. At the sight of him struggling, Cyril slips his fingers from where they remain in Ashe’s mouth, and goes to wipe the loose saliva clinging to them on the edge of his clothes. 

“Kinda gross. Listen, I don’t wanna keep bugging you like this. Just-”

“Need your stuff?” Ashe interjects. “That’s fine. And- if it’s okay- I’d like to apologize.”

Unexpected to Ashe, Cytil’s expression turns deeply quizzical, a pointed change from his previous negativity. 

“You didn’t do anything.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Ashe sighs. “I messed up! I kissed you in front of all of those people.”

“That’s fine. It’s… okay, that you did that.”

  
“I hurt you.” Ashe whimpers. “You left. I don’t think I can ever forgive myself for that.”  
  
  


Cyril’s eyes narrow.

“Why’d you think you hurt me?” 

“I kissed you. When you didn’t want that. We were so close, and I- I wasn’t thinking straight, but that’s not an excuse, and I-” 

“Please,” Cyril gasps. “You’re gonna make it more difficult for us if you’re all sad about it. I kissed you back, remember?” 

“Yes.” Ashe answers. “I remember that. But that doesn’t really mean anything, because if I can kiss _you_ on impulse, then you can kiss me on impulse and regret it so much afterwards because it ruined everything.”

Ashe finds his breathing becoming ragged as he speaks, catching in his throat and making it ache. He knows he’s on the verge of tears, but he tries his best to dam their flow, lest Cyril give him undeserved sympathy by virtue of his sadness. 

“I’m sorry.” he mutters. “For all of this.”

“Ashe?” 

He whimpers, briefly, before looking up at Cyril’s furrowed brow and half-glaring eyes. 

  
“Yes?”

“Stop being so mad at yourself.” he commands, blunt. “Please.” he adds at the end of it.

“Y-you’re right.” Ashe’s voice still wobbles, though he commands himself internally to remain calm and reasonable. “It’s cruel of me to wallow in self-pity like this, when you’re the one who got hurt.”

To Ashe’s surprise, his statement seems to draw the ire of Cyril. A tense tap of feet on the floor and a pointed sigh is the only response he’s given for his apology, and Ashe can’t help but wonder what the problem is with his atonement.

“Ya didn’t hurt me. If you’d hurt me, I wouldn’t have kissed you back.” he groans, frustration clear in his voice. “If that’s what you’re feelin’ bad about, then you can stop, alright?” 

“...Okay.”

A pregnant silence hangs between the two of them for what Ashe guesses must be at least a minute. He’s sure Cyril has something to say, judging by the way his lips are pursed, but he seems incapable of expressing it. And despite his desire to let Cyril be done with him in all shapes and forms imaginable, he can’t stop a question from brewing at the back of his throat. 

_Why did you leave?_

Asking it might only trouble Cyril further. Even if he insists the kiss left him unhurt, Ashe knows he has no right to demand answers from him simply because he’s reluctant to vindicate someone he once trusted.

Still; it burns, unceasing.

_Was it just surprising? Do my feelings disgust Cyril?_

_If it surprised him, why would he leave for so long? And if he truly thinks so little of me for doing what I did, why return it, even in the moment?_

Ashe indulges himself in his train of hopeless thoughts until he’s interrupted, predictably, by Cyril. 

“It was good.”

“What?”

“The kiss.” From the way his face contorts, Ashe knows that Cyril is speaking against his better judgement. But he doesn’t interfere, or urge him to stop, as he knows would likely be kinder. “It felt good when you kissed me. I wanted you to do it, and I did it back.”

“Ah.”

The pregnant silence continues on for another little while, as Ashe watches Cyril take a seat in front of the desk rather than just standing to face him. 

Keeping silence becomes harder, and harder, straining at every part of Cyril it can touch until he blurts the words out; his damned question entering the space between them. 

“Why did you leave?” he mumbles, voice sinking. “I was worried about you. Even though I know you don’t want me to worry about you, and that you can handle yourself, I just- worried.”

A great teardrop glides its way down Ashe’s face, falling from his face and onto the pad of paper beneath him. 

“I can’t stand the idea of you being hurt.”

As Ashe watches, Cyril buries his head deep in his hands, almost as he did to himself earlier. He wonders if Cyril feels the same way. If he feels the upswell of horrid shame in his chest just like he did when he was reminded of his great trespass against their enduring bond. 

“...I dunno if I can explain it well. It feels really messy when I imagine it.” Cyril begins, like he’s gearing up to tell a story. “But- everything that’s happened recently keeps making me think about our future. 

“M-me too.” Ashe murmurs. A quick upward glance from Cyril indicates he’s not done speaking, and Ashe squeaks out an apology.

“All of your friends are married now. Or they’re gonna be married. ‘Cept Flayn, but she has Seteth to deal with. Some of ‘em even have kids. And they’re all happy like that, right?” 

“A-as far as I know.”

Cyril nods, like Ashe has given him the correct answer. 

“But you’re not. And I kept thinking about it, and I realized I’m kind of like your own Seteth.”

_That_ proclamation manages to stun Ashe, leaving his jaw hanging slightly open. He knows Cyril and Seteth are close, and that they’re similar in a lot of ways. But he’s never imagined Cyril as a Seteth-figure, and the images of Cyril in Seteth’s robes or with his haircut that his mind spits out involuntarily do nothing but confuse and distress him.

“You’re great. And you’re my best friend. And I help you out all the time, right? But when I keep hangin’ around you all the time, it’s like I’m getting in the way of you finding someone to marry for yourself.”

“Oh.”

Ashe isn’t entirely sure where to begin with _that_ ; or whether there’s anywhere he can begin that isn’t just _no, you’re wrong. That’s not what you’re doing, not at all._

“A nice girl should be able to find and talk to you without me bugging both of you about advisor stuff. Bein’ the best lord you can means getting in with some noble daughter, and having your own little brat who can have the territory when you’re gone.”

“What does that matter for?”

“I don’t want you to waste your time, Ashe. We’ve worked so hard to get all this way, and to make Gaspard really good. And if it’s just left alone…”

“I don’t remember saying that I was going to leave Gaspard alone.” Ashe interjects. “If I was married with a baby, I’d probably have even less time to spend fussing over these things!”

“I-I guess that’s true. But, y’know, I’d still be here, right? So you could still make it big, and marry some noble girl so your kids can get crests.”

Ashe practically _heaves_ at the thought of making Cyril shoulder the burden of the territory just so he can marry into wealth. An awful feeling overtakes him, too, at the notion that he hasn’t been able to convey to Cyril just how much he _means_ to him. How he means more than anything, even his Lordship. 

“I don’t want crested babies.” Ashe groans, returned to the verge of tears. “If I thought that stuff was important, I’d have let someone with a crest be Lord.”

“But you still want an heir. So you’ve gotta marry someone who’ll make you a baby.”

Ashe shakes his head with insistence, hands gripping the desk tense and rigid. 

“Having an heir doesn’t matter. It’s not what Gaspard needs.”

“You love all those stories about knights and their descendants, though. Like that big one you told me about those blue-haired kings-”

“That’s all that is. A story.”

Ashe’s interruption stuns Cyril into silence. Ashe finds himself using the silence in the conversation to counter Cyril’s despair, and his constant under-valuing of himself. 

“It’s a fantasy story where stuff is easy, and the people who are in charge are always right. But we live in the real world, right?” 

Cyril doesn’t offer Ashe a verbal response, but he nods, raising his head from his hands as he does. Ashe isn’t sure if he’s seen Cyril look as _small_ as he does since they were at Garreg Mach together, albeit in greatly different positions. 

“I’m only here because Lonato saw promise in me, a long time ago. And I don’t think he’d want me to do anything differently myself. Gaspard needs to be in safe hands.”

Ashe takes a deep, hesitating breath.

“It needs to be in our hands. Together. Y-you don’t have to like me the way I like you, I promise. But we’ve done too much hard work to leave things to someone who _thinks_ Gaspard needs to belong to them.”

“...If I stay,” Cyril begins, voice muffled by his hands, “will you ever get over me?”

Ashe only shrugs, a slight smile on his face. 

“I don’t know. Maybe I never will.”

“If I stay, then you’ll always like me. ‘n you won’t find anyone else.”

“I suppose.”

Cyril’s face lifts up somewhat; hesitation evident in his eyes.

“And you _want_ that?” 

“I said I’d follow you anywhere. Remember our promise?”

Despite the slight smile on his face, Ashe can’t find it in himself to stem a tear that falls from his eye and dribbles down his cheek. In the way Cyril looks at him, so full of wist and barely-repressed hope, he wonders if he’s far away from the aching sensation of tears himself.

“‘Course I do, Ashe.” 


	15. never dreamt a dream that wasn't you

He’s back.

It’s almost laughable, how correct he was when he predicted that he wouldn’t be able to make himself leave if he returned to the Estate and met with Ashe. He’d planned to avoid him upon his return, but, well, he’d found himself in need of several things from his office, to which only Ashe bore an extra key. Everything had snowballed from there, and Cyril had found himself once more weeping in the confines of his office, a kind hand on his shoulder as he bawled. 

All terribly embarrassing, and slightly brutal to his psyche. But he’d found an answer to the question which had troubled him for so long- _why_ Ashe had kissed him- and a way to come home that didn’t feel like its own form of traitorism. 

He hadn’t bothered asking for the key, or going to collect his belongings. All of a sudden, he’d had nowhere to bring them, no reason to disturb them in their own homes. Rather, he’d asked Ashe to bring him straight to his bedchambers, to which Ashe had agreed enthusiastically. Arms linked, they’d walked in tandem over to where Cyril usually took his rest.

He’d retired, then, even though the day was barely half over. His long walk was beginning to take a greater toll on him, his body certainly no longer holding the stamina it once did in regards to marches and processions, and the sight of a comfortable bed could not have seemed _more_ appealing at that time. It was then that Ashe had kissed him for a second time; albeit on the cheek. He’d asked for it, flustered and nervous about the matter until Ashe had actually gone through it. Once more, his lips had been soft and inviting and wonderful, and once it had stopped it had felt so far from _enough_. But contentment was sufficient, then, and he had no mind to push things any further. Not when the exhaustion was evident, too, on Ashe’s face.

A week had passed since then. Despite everything, Cyril found that most, if not all, of their lives had gone back to normal after their initial conflict; discussion of either the kiss or Cyril’s attempt to leave sparse and quickly overshadowed by work talk. This had also meant that their relationship had not been clarified, nor had they progressed into any further intimacy past occasional tender kisses on the face which could easily have represented nothing more than a particularly fond platonic friendship. Particularly when there were regions of Southern Faerghus where such kisses sufficed as a greeting between two people, and indicated nothing along the lines of carnal or intimate thoughts. 

Cyril can’t help but admit to himself that he wishes something had happened during that week. It’s not that he doesn’t take Ashe at his word- quite the contrary, really- but rather that if _this_ is what couples do after emotional revelations regarding their love of each other, Ashe’s romance books have been lying to the two of them about real life relationships. Which, as a point that Cyril has insisted on for a long time, he supposes he should feel at least slightly vindicated by. But any such feelings seem to have been usurped by building desire inside of him, and for the need to have Ashe _show_ him exactly how he feels, now and forever.

It’s not something he mentions to Ashe in conversation. He can hardly imagine being able to say the words, even if the simple potential of a relationship has suddenly filled him with the craving to act upon his long-lasting curiosities. There are, after all, many more important things to attend to between the two of them. 

Cyril can’t stop himself from wondering, though, when Ashe invites him to one of the more secluded parts of the castle on a Friday evening, message delivered by a small piece of paper with delicate calligraphy rather than spoken in purpose. It’s the first time he’s known Ashe to be shy regarding an event to attend or a task which needs to be completed. So it’s natural, he reasons with himself, for his apprehension to grow almost overwhelming in the hours beforehand. 

He rarely finds himself in the castle’s atelier, and it’s one of the few places he can’t find on muscle memory alone. But it’s not hard to recognize it amongst the rooms it’s clustered in with, clear glass windows wide and allowing potential customers an easy view of the various products on sale. Much of it is typical uniforming for academics, the governing cabal and the house-staff- but Cyril knows it’s unlikely he’s there for any of those. He’s never helped Ashe with shopping for garments before, and he sees no reason why he’d need to do so all of a sudden. 

When he enters the store, it’s not long before he’s waved into the back rooms. He puts up a show of confusion at first, but he doesn’t doubt that Ashe has already arranged for things to go this way. He acquiesces after his short period of complaint, letting one of the young apprentices working diligently on an embroidered doublet lead him into the area of the store most often used for measurements and fittings. 

“Lord Ashe is waiting for you, Sir Cyril.” the small girl whispers, and Cyril responds with a gentle nod of acknowledgement. He can tell from the way she hovers around him that she’s nervous, struggling to hide her apprehension around someone with a higher status than her.

“I used to do what you do, you know.” Cyril finds himself murmuring, not entirely thinking it through before he says it. “Sewing stuff up. Things like that.” 

She still casts her gaze away from Cyril, but he sees her quivering cease for the most part, and he decides that’s good enough. 

“Were… you any good at it?” she asks, eyes planted firmly on the stone floor underneath the two of them. Failing to bite back a chuckle, Cyril ruffles her hair playfully, causing her to join him in his giggling. 

“Nope.” He glances over to where the girls’ work lies, draped over a stool. From what he can tell, it’s a delicate piece, likely a custom for one of the local merchants. “Not as good as you, at least.” 

Her giggling becomes heartier before it quickly ceases; almost as soon as they’ve stepped into the back quarters of the store. Without the light of a summer afternoon permeating wide display-windows and rounded portal-glasses, everything sinks into a darkness only permeated by candle-light once the door they’ve come through shuts behind them. With no reason to keep her around any longer than necessary, Cyril pulls back on the brass handle to allow her an exit out, lest the darkness continue to intimidate her.

Though an atmosphere of cavernous petrichor hangs in the air, a world away from the deliberate spectacle of the careful displays and cheerful industriousness outside of it, Cyril finds himself having little difficulty picking out various objects in the dungeon-esque landscape of the room. Though its reflection is dimmed by the low light, he’s sure there’s a full-body mirror in the corner, mimicking every slight motion of his body back to him if he stands in the right position. Adjacent to it are hooks from which hang various cloth-working tools and measuring implements, all dangling over a set of stools organized neatly by height. None of which were dusty, despite the undeniably foreboding atmosphere of their keep. 

But Cyril’s attention is caught, first and foremost, by a row of what he quickly deduces are clothing-stands placed adjacent to each other on the west wall. Each one is covered with a dismal-looking sack-cloth, but the shape made by the draping is distinct for each stand. An inconspicuous display, Cyril does manage to avoid the temptation to disturb it; his eyes hardly leave the row once he notices it, however. As neat and orderly as a battalion rank, he decides quite quickly that there is something special about the concealed specimens. 

In his mind, he makes a concerted effort to guess what each piece might be based solely on its flame-cast shadow and silhouette. Some he finds easier to ascribe description to than others- the one furthest to the left is obviously a rounded hat of some sort, and the lowest trailing one, he decides, is unlikely to be much else than a cape so long that it might trail on the ground if it were worn by someone of insufficient height. Others trouble him by being shapeless or indistinct; wildly unfamiliar or almost identical to another one of their neighbours.

Still, it keeps him busy. Despite being called to the place by Ashe, the Lord is nowhere in sight, and he can sense no footsteps or movements which might belong to him. In fact, he’s sure that if his guessing were not keeping him busy, he would already be leaving to find someone who might know of Ashe’s location. 

Such thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a hand trailing gently over stone; emanating from the room next door to the fittings area he has found himself in. In the quiet, such a sound is as vivid as an approaching parade, and Cyril’s head snaps right to face the direction of its source. 

“Ashe?” he calls out, both impatient and curious. “Are you making that noise over there?”

The slight scraping sound ceases, almost jarringly, as the words clear Cyril’s mouth. He rolls his eyes, disregarding the solitude surrounding him. 

“I’ve been waitin’ for ya.” he huffs. “You should come out now.”

“...Sorry.” the voice mumbles, unmistakably Ashe. “I didn’t realize you’d be here so soon. And I thought you might have been a ghost.”

Cyril sighs, and rubs a hand over his temple. 

“Just me, Ashe. Do you still want to show me something?” 

“Y-yeah.” From behind the door, Cyril can hear faint footsteps approaching his direction, albeit slowly and precisely. “It’s definitely you, right?” 

Hard enough to make a loud noise, Cyril raps his knuckles twice against the stone walls of the enclosed room. 

“Ghosts can’t hit things.” _Ghosts aren’t real, also_ , Cyril tells himself. But he doesn’t say it out loud. “So it could only be me.”

“...Right.”

Though Cyril had mostly attempted his “proof” as a joke, it doesn’t surprise him that Ashe seems convinced by the display. He listens carefully to Ashe’s gradual approach, which gradually becomes faster as time passes, while tapping his foot on the ground. 

Eventually, the door to the right of him creaks open, the brass doorknob shifting and turning underneath the ministrations of Ashe’s hand. The traces of sunlight provided to the adjacent room by a higher window seep in through the doorway as it does, and Cyril begins to understand why Ashe had felt more comfortable hiding in there than the shadowed room he’s been inhabiting for the past five minutes or so. 

“See?” Cyril states, plain, gesturing to himself. “Just me. Always has been.”

Ashe only nods in response, but Cyril swears he hears him stammering out a little _thank the goddess_ beneath his breath. 

When he emerges fully, he takes his place underneath one of the candle-lanterns hoisted on metal hooks fastened to the stone walls all around the room. 

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”

Cyril makes a little brushing motion with his hand, and shakes his head. 

“‘s fine. I can wait.”

  
“I know. But I shouldn’t make you. Not after I’ve made you come somewhere as creepy as this.”

“Is it creepy?” Cyril blurts out, quizzical. “I don’t know if it’s that creepy.”

“R-really?” 

“I’ve seen creepier. Did you just want to show me a creepy room? Because if you’re scared, then-”

“I-I’m not _scared_ ,” Ashe groans, ragged. “And I promise I wouldn’t just drag you somewhere like… _this_ … without there being something important.”

“Is there something important?” 

From the shape his shivering shadow casts across the floor, Cyril can tell that Ashe is nodding. 

“...Do you want to show me it?” 

Again, Ashe nods. With clear anxiety, he slinks out from underneath the lamp he’s been standing underneath, and re-emerges over at the lamp which hangs closest to the standees lined up on the other side of the room. Cyril’s gaze follows him the entire time, settling on Ashe only when he stands stock still beside the tallest and most abstractly shrouded of the half-clothed, obscure figures. 

“Is it those things behind ya’?” he asks, blunt. Under the brighter illumination of the lamp, he sees Ashe begin to sport a faint blush across his freckled cheeks. 

“Nothing escapes you.” he mutters, still somewhat giddy with fear. “Sorry it’s not more of a surprise.

“I still dunno what’s actually under those things. So, I’m still gonna be surprised when you take them off.” He pauses, brief, in the middle of his sentence. “Unless it’s all just burlap sacks.”

“No! No, I wouldn’t get you “just burlap sacks”.” Ashe insists. “Unless you wanted them. Do you want that?” 

“I wanna see what’s underneath them.” Cyril replies. 

“Okay. But I need you to stand in the center of the room for this to work, alright?”

Cyril obliges Ashe, stepping briefly into a spot behind where Ashe himself stands. It’s near the centre of the room, and judging from the way Ashe nods when he sees Cyril there, it’s close to where he’s supposed to be. 

“Alright. Um, I might have imagined this as being more impressive as I can actually make it be. Just- a little benefit of the doubt, if you can?” Ashe chuckles, nervous. 

“Are you gonna take the sacks off of those stands?” 

Ashe nods, apologetic, before shuffling closer to the faux-figure closest to the door. Looking over at Cyril for one more confirmation- and finding it in the gentle nod of his head- he draws the rough fabric into curled fists and adopts a playful stance. 

“Ready, Cyril?”

“C’mon.” he whines, his own fingers beginning to curl and shake in anticipation. “If it’s from you, it’s going to be fine.”


	16. impressions & images

A concerted effort on Ashe’s part sends the ragged covering flying away from the first of the stands; the discarded shell fluttering onto the ground somewhere behind them. Where exactly it goes, he isn’t exactly sure. Frankly, he doesn’t know if he can afford to check. He just has to keep _going_ , in order to make everything perfect for him. 

The next one follows, and Ashe follows his own lead as he pulls the cloth away from where it had once obscured a much finer garment than itself. It’s not easy, even after the first time, with Ashe finding that much of his energy in the process goes towards simply making sure that the stand itself does not fall down onto the ground when he pulls the disguise away with the dynamism he _wants_ to show. But it’s successful, and without casting another glance towards what has been revealed, he darts to the next subject in his show. 

Another reveal follows the first; in itself followed by an unveiling; a pattern which completes itself only when Ashe holds the last scrap of cloth in his hands. Breathing heavily, and with the tension inside him barely dissipating, he can’t quite bring himself to look over at Cyril. Everything he’s done has been for him- but to look him in the eyes is just too much, overwhelming and terrifying all at once. 

He knows what’s behind him. A full set of custom-tailored Almyran-style formalwear, sewn and embroidered at his personal request. He’d requested them long before anything had happened between him and Cyril, and he doesn’t feel quite comfortable presenting them as some romantic gift. But he hopes it’s enough, at least, for if he ever wants to join him in the social events he frequents as a lord. 

The room remains still for a minute or so, save for Cyril’s footsteps emanating from behind Ashe. As far as Ashe can tell, he’s moving towards where the clothes are laid out for his inspection. He’s reluctant to take that as confirmation that it’s a welcome gift, however, and his eyes remain fixed on the stone wall that’s in front of him. 

“...Ashe.”

“Y-yeah?”

Both of their voices tremble as they mingle with the empty air. Ashe finds himself pressing his hands against the wall, desperately trying to steady himself against the uncertainty that threatens to swamp all coherent thought inside of him. 

“I, uh. What’s this for?”

He takes a deep, harrowed breath.

“For you. I wanted you to have it.”

Ashe imagines how Cyril might look, briefly. How he might draw his hands around the fine folds of the silken fabric meant to resist the heat in the summer and insulate against cold winters. The way his fingers might trace across the fine embroidery of the edges, taking in the gold interwoven with the impossibly thin threads formed into the intricate shapes of ascending birds and wildflowers, as entranced by its intricacy as he was when he first received the full set on wyvern-back.

Yet, he doesn’t know if he’s happy with it. If it’s something that he actually wants. Because if it’s not, there was never any point to the purchase, regardless of the beautiful things laid out in front of them both. 

“T-to wear?”

Ashe isn’t sure what Cyril thinks he wants him to do with the clothes aside from wearing. Still, he mumbles out some confirmation, breath still shallow and overwhelmed. 

“Ah.” Cyril pauses again, creating a silence in which Ashe _swears_ he can hear Cyril’s heartbeat thrum like that of a trapped rabbit. “Why?” 

“Y-you don’t have any nice clothes. F-formal clothes- I don’t mean that I don’t like your clothes, because I d-do, _I just-_ ”

“I. Like them. Ah…”

Against his own better judgement, Ashe draws closer to where he can sense Cyril’s presence in the middle of the room. Though he doesn’t meet his gaze, their shoulders rub together, Ashe sighing at the contact. 

“You don’t have to lie to me if you don’t like it. I know it’s a lot.”

“N-nah.” Cyril stammers. “I mean what I say. They’re really nice. Kind of… too nice.”

Their hands end up fitting together, as if it’s natural, needing no prompt on either of their parts. Cyril’s fingers part like the petals of a flower in sunlight, and Ashe’s own grasp widens to accept them as they do, warm and gentle. 

“You deserve good things.” Ashe says, almost breathless. “I want to give you them. If you want to let me.” His grip gets looser, as if he’s expecting Cyril to pull back. But the sensation only becomes tighter; the heat and the grip suddenly much more intense. 

It draws a pronounced sigh from Ashe; a wide smile spreading across his face as Cyril nestles his head between his shoulder and his jawbones. Slowly, he begins to stroke down Cyril’s back with his free hand, a soothing and simple motion.

“I dunno how good I am at letting that happen,” Cyril hums, “but I can try. If you want to, then I want to.”

“Yeah?” 

Cyril purrs a small mhm against Ashe’s neck. Ashe shudders at the tenderness, the simple pleasure of intimate contact. 

“Would you… wear this with me, to Ingrid’s wedding…?” 

“O-oh. With you?” 

“Yeah. You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. But-”

“I’ll go.” he whispers. “If you want me there.” 

“Wherever I go,” Ashe says, “you can come with me. All I want is for you to be happy.”


	17. baby's breath and violets

Riding on a carriage through the stone streets of Enbarr, Cyril can’t help wondering if his heat tolerance has gone down over time. 

It’s hot, almost cloyingly so. The seafront winds have died down to the point of unhelpfulness, and a heat worse than anything he’s known in Gaspard clings to his skin regardless of the heat resistance of his clothes. He _knows_ summer in Almyra was worse. Still, by the time the vehicle comes to a rickety stop in front of the Mittelfrank Opera house, he’s already in a frustrating loop of checking his clothes for sweat stains and requesting the waterskin from their carriage-driver. Cyril supposes he must be fed up with the two of them and his finicky demands by the time the journey is over, as he whips the reins of the horses to leave as soon as they’ve paid and exited. There’s no chance for him to apologize, though, so he puts it to one side in his mind, and focuses more on the affairs of the day.

Only when he’s inside does he feel any relief. Deep inside the ventilated theatre, condensation forming on his hands and face is wicked away by a cooling wind spell that Dorothea is maintaining from her position in the back row of the main stage’s seating. 

“It’s lovely to see you both.” she exclaims when she spots them, the two of them wandering to the bottom of the stage after following unhelpful directions from a staff member for at least ten minutes in the heat. 

Cyril does his best to divert his eyes from her, unfamiliar as he is with her, despite their past comradery. She doesn’t get up to meet them, but Cyril doesn’t feel too inclined to blame her when he considers the heat, and the fact that she’s already wearing her wedding dress. Instead, Ashe climbs the stairs through the rows to meet her, and Cyril watches him with interest as he greets her with a firm handshake and a smile. 

“It’s been too long.” Ashe says, a wide grin on his face the entire time. Without hesitating, Dorothea pulls him in for a hug, his teal-blue formal robes forming a stark contrast against the red upholstery of the finer seats at the back of the gallery. 

“Much too long, indeed. You should come down to Enbarr more often.”

Ashe’s expression turns more pensive, and Cyril recognizes it instantly as the face he pulls when he’s trying to humour some unlikely idea. 

“I’m _really_ busy,” he splutters, Dorothea pulling some of the air from his chest with the hug, “but I-I’ll come down if there’s anything big, alright?” 

His answer seems satisfactory, judging from the way that Dorothea releases him all at once, though not before kissing him on the cheek and leaving a defined mark of red lipstick where her affectionate gesture lands. Cyril is left with little time to think on the matter, however, when Dorothea’s eyes turn down towards him, still hesitating in the gallery below the bottom row of seats. 

“Is that Cyril?” she coos, gesturing for him to come up the stairs. “You’ve grown very handsome, I have to say. You should join your date up here, you know.”

Cyril can’t stop himself from blushing furiously, all as Ashe diverts his gaze from both of them. He hesitates, if only briefly, to fiddle with the tails of his top robe. At the sight of it, Dorothea giggles, worsening the growing heat inside of him. 

“It’s impolite to keep a handsome man waiting, you know.”

Before he can submit to Dorothea’s instructions, a loud sound from backstage interrupts their conversation and Dorothea’s enthusiastic greetings. Without giving him time to react, Cyril finds himself leaping backwards to avoid Annette dragging a white-painted stool through the customer door. What doesn’t surprise him is the way Dorothea waves down at her, appreciation clear from her sunny disposition. 

“On the centre of the stage, please!” she commands down, voice full of energy. Annette flashes her a determined nod before murmuring an apology for her disturbance to Cyril, and all three find themselves watching Annette clumsily placing the stool in the midst of colourful decorations strewn across the stagefront. When she’s finished, she bows as if completing a performance, and Cyril claps, an instinct leftover from the few plays he’s attended in his time. 

Once again, before he can manage to feel even more embarrassed, the door nearest to him is rendered ajar as another member of the audience emerges from the entryway. Cyril watches as Sylvain hauls what appears to be a heavy marble centrepiece in the shape of a swan over to an ice-blue covered table lying behind the stool and leaves it there. Somehow, he does it quicker than Annette- who’s still standing on the stage, and who responds to Sylvain’s efforts with a spirited and friendly hug. 

Following behind him are Felix and Mercedes, each carrying their own lot, and Manuela, whose arms remain unoccupied as she rushes behind Cyril faster than he’s ever thought her capable of moving just to wrap Dorothea in a warm, abiding hug. He can tell they’re whispering something to each other almost immediately after they touch, but any desire to spy on their conversation is quickly stemmed by Ashe returning down the stairwell to once more wrap his arms around Cyril’s chest. 

“I’m sorry they’re all so… _so_. They’ll calm before the ceremony, I promise.” he whispers in Cyril’s ear as he holds him close. Cyril only chuckles at his panicked tone, and draws him closer into the hold. 

“I’ve fought alongside ‘em, haven’t I? I know all your friends are kinda crazy, Ashe.”

“Let me know if you get overwhelmed, alright?” 

“Yeah.” Cyril murmurs. “I will.”

Cyril counts his blessings silently when Dorothea, clearly having finished her conversation with Manuela, does a delicate trot down the carpeted stairs of the theatre. Her movements seem to distract everyone, silencing them for a moment and bringing some relief to his already-aching ears. 

“I have to thank you all _so much_ for coming.” she pronounces, singer’s voice ringing out loud and confident throughout the crowd. “I can’t express how much this day means to me, and how wonderful you’ve all been in helping us both set it up.”

Dorothea’s words remind Cyril that he hasn’t seen Ingrid, not yet. He’s not entirely sure how weddings in Fodlan operate, though, and as long as they’re anything like Almyran weddings he supposes there’s not much for him to worry about. As far as he’s always been concerned, the two partners wait until they meet each other around the shrine to look upon each other in their wedding clothes, lest their new life be sabotaged by bad fortune. 

“You all look gorgeous. And I know many of you have made long journeys to be here today, particularly in this heat. I’ll do my best to not overstay my welcome when I talk, of course- all those words need to be saved for my _wedding vows_.” 

-Something about the way Dorothea says _wedding vows_ \- Cyril wonders if it’s the words, or the songlike way she spoke them- sends the crowd which surrounds him, already having grown by several members since he last paid attention to the flock, into a great mess of joyous cries and hugs between its members. He’s not quite sure how to react until Ashe draws him into an embrace himself, planting a slight kiss on his cheek as he does. 

“Still good?” he asks, whispering it into the shell of Cyril’s ear. When he responds with an affirmative nod, Ashe draws back somewhat, but not before running his hand through Cyril’s hand gently. 

In a lull between cheers, he takes his chance to survey the expanded crowd. Out of the corner of his eye, he manages to spot Raphael and Ignatz (who sports in his hand a letter bearing both the Riegan and Gloucester crests) alongside Bernadetta, whose traditional silk dress is accented with Brigidian shell accessories and whose hair is in robust plaits. Somewhat distracted by the various paintings on the wall at the other side of the room is Ferdinand, accompanied by an ever-exhausted Linhardt and a rather enthusiastic Caspar. It disappoints Cyril slightly that there’s no sign of Claude, Dimitri, Petra or Byleth, but even imagining the pressure of ruling great swathes of territory like they do stresses him out somewhat. Still, there are signs of them on each of their loved ones, and he hopes that’s enough. 

Only shortly after his observations finish are all of the guests called to take seat. Cyril quickly picks up on that they’re allowed to choose wherever he might like to seat himself, and with Ashe’s hand in his, he darts to the empty space next to Ignatz in the middle row. 

Exchanging a quick wave with his green-haired neighbour, he quickly turns to look down at the stage, repurposed as the set of a wedding more real than anything else performed on it before. Without the disarray of guests crowding around it, it all looks more put-together, almost charmingly so. It’s not as if Cyril has much to base his opinion on- and he acknowledges that, at least- but he looks toward it with appreciation anyway, unsure and uncaring of the opinions of others. 

He’s not sure where Dorothea is, but when he whispers the question to Ashe, he gets the answer that she’s gone backstage, likely to fully prepare for her march down the aisle. Likewise, he can’t find Annette, Mercedes, Manuela or Bernadetta in the audience- and he remembers all four of them wearing fairly similar dresses, too. 

_Bridesmaids_ , Ashe had told him about before. 

In the simmering heat, Cyril finds himself drifting off. His seat isn’t particularly comfortable, but the journey has left him as tired as Dorothea had predicted it had, and he can’t entirely stem his need to doze off in the simple warmth. He doesn’t entirely manage to get to sleep, however, interrupted as he is by the sound of music picking up from the sides of the stage.

When his eyes snap open and his gaze meets the stage; he realizes that all of the candles on the stage have now been lit, only accentuating the heat. More importantly, a shrouded figure is emerging from one side of the stage, accompanied by two others seemingly flocking around her like birds. As they move, Cyril narrows his eyes to get a better view of the dresses- and picks up on the violet-purple and regal gold he’d seen on Bernadetta and Manuela, respectively, earlier in the day. 

_Dorothea must be between them, then._

When the figure turns to the side, standing by the main centrepiece, Cyril catches sight of Dorothea’s flowing brown hair. He nods to himself, satisfied in his deduction, and wraps a hand around one of Ashe’s own. 

“She looks good.” he mumbles. Everyone seems silent, but when he pays attention, he can tell they’re whispering, and he figures it’s okay for him to do the same. When Ashe nods, calm, he’s fairly sure he’s made the right choice. 

Following her comes Ingrid, Annette and Mercedes trailing behind her. Without a veil of her own, and dressed in a more masculine wedding outfit, it’s clear to Cyril the moment he sees her who he’s looking at. Her outfit manages to be equally stunning, and he wordlessly nudges Ashe to take notice of it as she takes careful strides towards the arch placed on the stage, eyes closed the entire time. 

It’s when she reaches the centre of the stage that her eyes flutter open, gradual and anticipatory, to meet Dorothea’s own gaze. Cyril watches the scene play out carefully; eyes fixed on each moving part as it plays its role in the scene. When Ingrid weeps, joyful, at the sight of it, he finds himself almost equally enraptured, a single tear falling down his cheek. When he turns towards Ashe for comfort, he finds Ashe himself marked too with tears, chest heavy with the importance of the entire affair going on in front of the two of them. 

It’s the exchange of rings that captivates him most, though. Neither of the pieces of jewellery look particularly fanciful or expensive, simple metal bands with a single pearl attached to each. But the joy which emanates from both brides radiates throughout the crowd as they exchange such precious goods, the dearness of the other to them clear as daylight. 

He wonders, idle and in silence, if he’ll ever do something similar with Ashe. He’s not sure that they’d have to, just in order to be joined forever. But whatever it is about weddings, he can’t help but hope that his own joining might evoke the same emotions amongst its audience one day. 

When the exchange is completed, a roar of claps fills the air throughout the theatre; one that Cyril quickly joins in with. The energy surrounding him is so suddenly joyful, it’s hard for him to resist mimicking the movements everyone else makes, particularly when Ashe joins in with them so quickly and intently.

Almost as soon as the clapping begins, however; it ceases. Cyril watches as Mercedes whips a bouquet of flowers from her side and wiggles it in front of the audience, almost like she’s teasing them. He’s not sure what the purpose of her doing that is, but he pays close attention to it, eyes trained on the dancing object like a cat stalking its prey. 

When Mercedes throws it forward, its arc finalized as it drifts towards the midst of the audience, Cyril finds himself carried by something almost external to himself as he reaches forward to grasp at it, clutching the knotted assembly of roses and cornflowers in his grasp. For a moment, he wonders if he might fall onto the spectators below him, his weight off balance for one tentative second- but Ashe’s grasp on him pulls him backwards before he panics, and he lands securely in his seat with a pronounced _thunk_.

Another round of applause begins; seemingly for no reason. Cyril waves the bouquet around a little himself, wondering if he needs to hand it over to someone- he only caught it on instinct, after all. But when everyone around him gives him nothing but a questioning or sympathetic glance as he does, he ends up clutching it close to his chest. 

It’s then that he realizes the way keen eyes across the audience are facing him and Ashe, seated next to each other as they are. 

Despite the suddenness, he can’t deny how _right_ it feels. 

“Do they, uh, want us to do something…?” he asks, voice a gentle murmur. 

“I-it means we’re supposed to get married next. I think.”

“...Right now?”

“Later. Whenever you want. And if you don’t want to-”

“I could do that.” he purrs. “I still remember our promise.” 

It’s that moment, when Ashe plants a kiss squarely on his lips, that Cyril wants to remain in forever; if only so he can remind himself as often he needs that the impossible really can happen. 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm @meowcosm on twitter!
> 
> art for this fic was done by @ren_renners on twitter.


End file.
